


Brilliant Light

by Angelbird



Series: Demon Hunters [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Very) Pre-Destiel, (sort of), Alternate Season/Series 10, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Dean-Centric, Demon Dean, Gen, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelbird/pseuds/Angelbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Castiel’s breathing is steady, if a little shallow. He’s going to be okay. ‘Okay’ being a relative term, and relatively worse than Dean had expected.</em> </p><p>Dean is back, but Castiel is running out of time fast. No matter what the angel says, the Winchesters are not going to leave him to fend for himself – but what exactly is it going to take to save an angel?</p><p> </p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5706733/chapters/13146721">Demon Hunter</a>.<br/>Alternate Season 10. Dean-centric.</p><p>(Can be read as pre-Destiel.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sooner Rather Than Later (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> STOP! This is a sequel to [Demon Hunter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5706733/chapters/13146721). I suggest you read that first, if you're going to at all. Otherwise, this'll pretty much spoil it from the get-go. That said, enjoy!

 

Sam finally tells him, and he loses it.

When Dean told Sam that he might eventually actually approve of the blood-drinking, he was mostly trying to get out of the cure. Even if he _had_ believed that it could happen at some point, well, he had expected said point to have come at a much later time.

But Sam tells him (late, so late, why didn’t he tell him sooner!) and he explodes. It’s a good thing that Sam is able to defend himself, although Dean doesn’t think so at the time. He is furious, but after the first outburst, he is also startled enough by that rage, to take himself away from anyone else.

Dean ends up in one of the lower parts of the bunker – some part of the archives. It’s dark and quiet, and it gives him a chance to think.

The absoluteness of his anger gives him pause. Not because it made him lash out, but because it has nothing to do with his being a demon. He is almost sure he would have felt just as strongly, had he still been human.

Dean might just have pointed a gun at Sam when he found out, if he had still been human. In an odd roundabout way, Sam was probably safer with him being a demon when he threw this particular tantrum.

But Sam... Dean can’t believe him, can’t believe it. Dean has been back in the bunker for well over a week now. He and Sam has been out on another hunt, a simple salt and burn, and Sam went after a demon on his own a couple of days back. And yet Sam didn’t tell him anything. Not until now.

 

* * *

 

Dean finally, finally pulled himself together to bring it up. He had tossed his phone when he first skipped out (and he really tries not to think of that, those first few minutes, what happened right then), and he hasn’t got any way to reach out for himself. So he finally mans up enough to talk to Sam.

Sam’s in the library, reading something or other. Dean thinks its leisure reading, but the lines are starting to blur, so he is mostly basing that on the fact that they haven’t got a case at the moment.

“Sam?” he waits for his brother to look up, and takes a deep breath, “Have you heard anything from Cas?”

Dean knows his brother well enough to recognise the guilty look; it is (unfortunately) not a new expression on Sam’s face. But it is the accompanying panic and _pain_ that makes Dean’s heart hammer harshly in his chest.

Sam gestures to the seat across the table, and the idea that he has to sit down for whatever it is Sam has to say doesn’t help the hyperactive tattoo being beat in Dean’s chest at all.

“Sam,” it’s a growl now, still human, but audibly displeased. Sam sighs, but he doesn’t fiddle. It makes Dean suspect he has been preparing for this conversation.

“Cas lost his grace—”

“I know,” still a growl.

“—and then he took care of it, by stealing another angel’s grace,” Sam pauses, but Dean just waits. He knows this. “Apparently, that’s not something one just does,” Sam stops again.

Dean lasts a couple of seconds before he barks, “Sam.”

Sam seems to realise that drawing things out isn’t going to make it any easier. “I’ve spoken to him about once a week, when you... when I was looking for you.” _Sam_ was looking for him. Somehow that seems to exclude Castiel. Dean doesn’t know how he feels about that. “Cas’ borrowed grace was burning out; he didn’t have much energy to spare.” Dean has often considered the possibility that his little brother might be able to read minds. “Anyway, a couple of weeks back, I missed a call. Then the week after, I found you, but we were working that case with the godddess, and I didn’t know what was going to happen. Then there was the cure and the not-cure, and now you’re here but you’re still a demon, and I have no idea what to say to him, if he calls.”

“You haven’t called Cas in, what, _a_ _month?_ Even though you used to talk every _week?”_

“He hasn’t called me, either!”

“Of course he hasn’t! He wouldn’t want to intrude. Help, yes, but if he can’t... Sam, you said the grace was burning out. What’s that mean?” Dean can feel the unease creep back. He’s heard nothing yet that warranted his sitting down.

“It makes him ill. He was getting weaker and weaker for each week.”

“And when it is gone?” Dean’s voice is deceptively calm.

“He’s dying, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t think, just reacts on his own incredulity, “He’s _dying_ and you can’t even fucking _call_?!” Sam collides with the wall behind him, before Dean realises what is happening. He would have followed, have been all up in his brother’s face if not for a different, opposing force holding him back.

“Dean!” Sam snaps, still struggling against the wall, but on his own two feet and breathing freely.

Dean glares at him, and then his perception slides. He can see not Sam’s blood, but the flow of it around his body, and not his soul, but the light it shines with. He can see all the weak points of the living being in front of him, and something dark and wild inside of him screams for him to wreak havoc on every single soft spot.

Dean gets out of there.

 


	2. Call (My Name)

 

Dean wishes he hadn’t stormed away from Sam like that. He wishes he had kept his head about him, and hadn’t overreacted.

He is not sure he really thinks that he was overreacting, though. He knows Castiel well by now, too well, and the stubborn angel would have done his best to hide his condition from Sam, when Sam was already upset and preoccupied with his search for Dean. Given the fact that his brother has been able to tell that the angel was bad off anyway, Dean really doesn’t want to guess at Cas’ condition.

There’s also a part of him that, though small and, Dean thinks, selfish, believes that if he had been at all able, Castiel would have been searching for Dean, too.

And there’s a tiny part, a part which is mostly drowned out because Sam is in the bunker and safe, and Cas is god knows (ha!) where, but there is a part that resents the angel for not keeping Sam safe, not keeping him away from the demon blood, not being there for him when Dean wasn’t. Dean thinks his own guilt fuels that voice too, though.

He has to go back up to Sam. He still doesn’t have a means of contacting Castiel himself. He has gotten a new phone, but he hasn’t gotten his angel’s number. And he can’t pray, he doesn’t know how any more.

The praying thing is a weird feeling, he muses as he walks back up the stairs. It is the absolute knowledge that nobody will hear you. He is a damned soul, and his prayers for salvation are doomed to go unheard. That his prayers to his friend, for said friend to be okay are likewise muted, well, frankly that sucks.

Sam looks up as he walks back in. The table’s pushed back in place, the few books that went flying picked up.

“You okay?” Sam asks tentatively.

Dean knows he is alert; now that he knows what they are, he can feel Sam’s powers roiling. It’s a strange feeling similar and yet so entirely unlike his own. Dean is wild, strength and power, untempered force. Sam’s power is similar, but it is controlled, shaped and bent by human cunning and ingenuity. It’s the difference between a giant comet and an atom bomb. Both could wipe out humanity, sure, but one strikes with no reason but chance and bad luck, where the other is the result of an active action.

(Dean does feel he is justified in comparing their respective abilities to something that can affect the entirety of the human race, yes.)

“Yeah. I...” he guesses he should apologise, but he is not sure he can, so he doesn’t try. “Cas’ number? I’m going to call him.” Dean walks up to the table again.

Sam fishes out his phone and brings the number to the screen so Dean can copy it. “You’re a demon, Dean.” Dean pauses. It’s said in a (almost disturbingly) matter-of-fact voice. “What are you going to say to him?”

Dean looks down at his phone, at the numbers on his display, and he doesn’t know. He takes a long moment to answer, “I need to know he is still okay, Sam. I need to know if he’s still alive.”

Sam takes a deep breath, “I can do it if—”

“No, you can’t,” Dean feels a little harshness creep into his voice, but he continues before Sam can protest, “You don’t want to tell him that I’m still a demon, and you especially don’t want to tell him that it’s going to stay that way, and that you’re going to let it. And if you thought you could call him up and lie, you would already have done it. You _can’t_.”

Sam nods. Dean rubs a hand over his eyes, hard.

“I don’t particularly want to either, you know. But...”

“But you have to know.”

“Yeah.” Dean nods once, decisively. “I’ll be in my room.”

He means to take a while to figure out what to say, to decide what he wants to ask, to make out what he needs to know. But his mind is blank, nothing but his brother’s words echoing in there. _He’s dying_. It doesn’t really matter anyway. There’s only one thing Dean needs to know.

He presses call.

“Who’s this?” Dean does not like the rough quality to it, but that voice is balm on his frayed nerves.

Dying is terrible, but there’s still a world of difference to dead.

“Hi Cas,” he smiles into the phone.

There’s a startled inhale, immediately followed by a harsh, wet coughing fit. Dean waits it out, his nails biting into the skin of his palm, and he feels helpless not even knowing where in the world Cas is. The grain in his wooden door slides in and out of focus with his sight as his frustration grows.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel replies finally, as though he has not sounded like he was choking to death for the better part of the last five minutes.

“God, Cas,” Dean didn’t care about blaspheming before, and he sure as hell doesn’t now, “How bad is it?” He figures he might as well cut to the chase.

“I believe the term is ‘how do you do?’.”

“ _Cas_ ,” he growls warningly.

“About as bad as it sounds? But Dean,” Dean wishes it was excitement that is making Castiel run out of breath, but he isn’t counting on it, “You’re back? Did Sam find you? How? Where? When?”

Dean’s in no mood to answer any of the questions as it is, but especially the last one makes him flinch, “How about you ask me in person?”

“I can’t fly, Dean,” Castiel sounds almost apologetic, and the wooden grains slip into sharp focus again.

“I know, Cas,” Dean’s managing to keep his voice soft. “Where are you? We’ll come get you.”

“Oh. Oh, I...”

“Cas, please. I want to see you. I need to see you.” The words are out Dean’s mouth before he realises what he is saying. At least he is in his room behind a closed door. Sam will never know how much of a girl he is sounding like, pleading with the angel. All he has to do is hope that Castiel doesn’t read too much into the words. (At this point, Dean has little idea of _how_ much _too_ much actually is. Honestly, he hasn’t known for years now, he thinks.)

“Um, the Nightlight Motel, Gruver, Texas. Room 108.”

“We’ll be there soon as we can. Hang in there, Cas.”

Castiel hangs up. With the way he was breathing even that short conversation took it out of him. Dean only just stops himself from punching the wall. He’s not actually sure if the old brick or his knuckles would come out on top.

 

* * *

 

“We’re going to pick up Cas,” he announces as he bounces back into the library.

“Oh, okay?”

“Now, Sam.”

“Did you ask him if he wanted to come, or did you just decide?”

“What the hell do you mean, Sammy?”

“I asked a couple of months back if he wanted to stay here. He said no.”

Dean takes a deep breath, “I imagine,” Dean pinches his nose, “that his answer would have been the same if I had been _stupid_ enough to _ask._ He doesn’t want to inconvenience us, Sam. You should know this by now.”

“I know,” Sam doesn’t blush, but he ducks his head. Dean can almost forgive him; Sam couldn’t have been in a good place when that conversation took place.

They’re standing by the Impala when Sam speaks up again, “Are you sure you want me to come?”

“And what exactly d’you mean by that?” Dean narrows his eyes at Sam, who shrugs apologetically. “This is a least partially your mess. You’re not going to let me explain the whole,” he gestures in the general direction of himself, “to him alone.”

Sam gets in the car. “About that, you mean to make him come back with us, right?”

“Of course.” Dean’s pulled out and is already speeding south.

“You do realise you’ll be asking him to come live with an abomination and a demon, right?”

Dean thinks the way his knuckles tighten on the steering wheel should be answer enough. He doesn’t speak.

“He might not want to, Dean.”

“Dammit, you didn’t hear him, man. He could barely get air enough to speak. He needs somebody to look after him.”

“And he might not want it to be us.”

Through the wind shield the world momentarily slides into a sharper more colourful version of itself. Dean can see the _life_ in things, and the urge to destroy that beauty is as easily ignored as the desire to stay in one place he had when he was a child. He grew out of that soon enough. He sort of expects the same of this part of his demonic nature. But even disregarding the urge, he cannot appreciate the beauty. He is worried sick. Next to him, Sam draws in a sharp breath. Dean exhales and forces himself to loosen his grip on the wheel. His sight slides back to normal.

“Who else has he got, Sammy?” he asks silently.

 

* * *

 

Dean has to make a conscious effort not to bounce on the balls of his feet as he waits after knocking on the door. Sam is standing just off to the side, and Dean can vividly imagine the raised eyebrow such behaviour would earn him. But he hasn’t seen Castiel for months, and he has to admit, if only to himself, that he is more than a little excited.

He can hear someone shuffling inside and the next moment the door swings open. Dean is not prepared for the sight.

He can tell that Castiel is different the instant his eyes lands on him. Of course Dean has always known, but _seeing_ it... He doesn’t even realise as his perception slides and he takes a look at not Castiel’s true form (that would probably burn the eyes out of his skull even faster than before), but still something beyond the vessel. There’s energy there: raw, sharp power, different again from both his and Sam’s. But it is nothing like what Dean sees when he looks at anything else.

Looking at Cas, he doesn’t really see _life_. He also doesn’t see the weaknesses connected with living things, and oddly he feels no desire to destroy.

What it is that he does see, he doesn’t have sufficient time to figure out, though.

Castiel rears back, “No, no, no!” The exclamation starts out as a screech but veers of into a moan in record time. The angel stumbles back till he stands frozen in the middle of his motel room. Dean takes a step forward.

“Stop!” Sam might as well have spared the command. Dean is frozen to the spot, held in the vice tight grip of his brother’s psychic bonds, even before Sam physically grabs him.

“No, please,” the moaning starts up again. Castiel’s eyes dart between them.

Dean wants to tell his friend that everything is okay. He wants to go to him, place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He wants to make Castiel sit down, because the pallor of his skin makes Dean worry.

He just wants to do something. Sam tightens his mental grip. The angel’s whimpers grow.

“Sam, stop! You’re making it worse!” Sam immediately lets go with anything but the hand on Dean’s arm. Dean makes to move forward again.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is urgent, “the door.”

Dean follows Sam’s finger to where it is pointing at the ground and he sees it too. Castiel has lined the door with salt. The windows, too, Dean hopes. He is actually a little proud. And growing rapidly more frustrated.

Cas is right there. Yet he still can’t get to him.

“Cas, you gonna let me in?” Dean goes for cocky and it comes out perfectly. It’s Castiel’s reaction which leaves something to be desired.

“No!” If Dean didn’t know better, he would say Cas sounds scared.

Dean furrows his brow, before turning his head slightly, still without letting his eyes leave the angel. “Sam?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

That makes Dean turn his attention entirely to his brother. “ _What_?”

“You’re freaking him out Dean. So am I. I _told_ you—”

“Sam!” Dean’s yell rings out over the parking lot.

Inside the room Castiel has collapsed to his knees, and is swaying alarmingly. Before Sam even starts moving, Castiel’s eyes roll back, and he starts a rapid descend to the floor. He is unconscious before his head meets the hard wood with a hollow thud.

Sam is at his side in an instant. Dean’s perception slides fully as he is forced to watch from outside the room. He has spent almost two weeks with Sam and aside from the few times the first couple of days, he has managed to keep that little trait tightly under control. Today it has been practically impossible for him, though. It all has to do with the angel.

“I’m going to need your help to get him on the bed, Dean.”

“Nothing I’d rather do, Sam,” Dean’s voice is so tense it is impressive that it doesn’t snap.

Sam looks up from his place kneeling next to the unconscious Castiel and curses. He leaves his charge to disrupt the salt line, and Dean brushes past him none to gently. He takes a second to run his hand over the angel’s brow – it’s damp and burning hot – before he grabs him under the arms while Sam takes charge of his legs, and they heave him onto the bed.

Dean wants to accommodate the fever by stripping Castiel of all unnecessary layers. It’s only then that he notices something, “Dude, what the hell are you wearing?” he asks the unconscious form on the bed.

Castiel is dressed in nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. Which wouldn’t be a problem – especially not since he is burning up – if not for the fact, “Tie-dye? _Really_?”

Sam returns from the adjoining bathroom with a damp towel. He hands it to Dean without comment, then goes to close the door they left gaping. Dean perches on the edge of the bed, gently wiping Castiel’s forehead. After a while Sam drags a chair over.

“Have you seen his T-shirt?” Dean almost manages to get the joke right. Castiel’s breathing is steady, if a little shallow. He’s going to be okay. ‘Okay’ being a relative term, and relatively worse than Dean had expected.

“His fashion sense hasn’t exactly gone up. And that’s saying something,” Sam’s voice is soft, his eyes on their friend’s face.

“Nah, I like the getup,” Dean gestures at nothing in general, referring to the angel’s usual ensemble.

“I know,” Sam mutters failing to repress a smirk and Dean sends him a sharp glare.

Sam simply raises his hands and gets up. He returns with a new damp towel, cooler than the one Dean is currently holding. He swaps them readily.

It takes time, but eventually Castiel’s fever comes down, and his sleep grows more restful. Sam gets their stuff and his laptop from the Impala and the brothers settle in to wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: 13th of February.


	3. Harvested Light

 

Castiel registers him before he is even fully awake. His head snaps towards Dean and his eyes open, but the muscles of his neck react before the delicate ones of the eyelids. Dean can tell; he is watching Castiel intently, from his place on the ratty couch. He has been for some hours now.

Sam is back by the table with his computer, but as Castiel stirs he looks up, too. Castiel gets into a sitting position, though it obviously takes him some effort. He stares at Dean. Dean stares back.

Dean is very careful to not let his perception slide. However much he wants to.

The silence drags out. Dean actually notices, though he is mostly preoccupied with searching Castiel’s eyes.

There is something there, something otherworldly. Dean can see it clear as day now, but it isn’t really new. He feels as though he has always been able to see it, but only now is his brain able to process it. If Dean still needed rest, he would have excused himself with being sleep deprived. As it is, he merely chokes down the pompous thoughts.

“How’re you feeling, man?” Dean sort of wants to jump to Cas’ side, but he stays where he is. That was sort of the point, and besides he doesn’t want to startle Castiel (and he really hates that it seems he can).

“You’re a demon.” It’s text book deadpan Cas, and Dean can’t help smiling.

“I noticed. It’s not an answer, though. Seriously, how are you feeling?”

“You’re a demon. There’s a demon in my room,” Sam makes a noise and Castiel flinches, his eye flickering back and forth between the Winchesters, “I don’t feel safe.”

Sometimes Dean really hates how brutally honest Cas can be. Sam saves him from trying to figure out an appropriate facial expression to hide the illogical hurt he’s feeling.

“No, we figured you mightn’t,” Sam waves at where Dean is sitting. “We couldn’t leave you, though.”

Castiel returns his attention to him, but Dean’s quite sure he hasn’t noticed the paint yet.

Sam stands and earns another flinch from Castiel, who recoils as much as he can without getting off of the bed. Sam freezes and raises his hands to mollify the angel, “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve just been sitting in that chair for hours. Kinda sore by now.” Sam takes another tentative step.

“I would prefer if you didn’t come near me.” Dean wonders if Sam would have taken offence at the words, if the tremble behind them had been angry instead of scared. He actually doubts it.

“Cas, man...” Sam seems to be at a loss.

“Sam...” Castiel pants, and Dean reckons that he does not so much want for something else to say, as for the energy to say it.

“Sammy, why don’t you go get us some food? Let me talk to Cas,” Dean addresses his brother, but he can still see Castiel’s reaction from the corner of his eye, and he feels a pang at the panic that flashes over the angel’s expression.

“Oh. But Sam,” Castiel’s voice is very small, “you can’t just leave me with him.”

If Dean had been able to, he would have walked away then and there, he thinks. He can’t deal with this shit. But he can’t leave. That’s sort of the point.

“Cas. First of all, it’s Dean. And I get there’s a long and thorough conversation about demons and their ability or lack thereof to feel, coming here, but I don’t think either of us have the energy to go there right now. It’s Dean, he isn’t going to unprovokedly attack you, or something,” Sam doesn’t say that Dean wouldn’t hurt Cas. Dean doesn’t quite know how he feels about that. His stomach stopped feeling okay a while ago, anyway. “Secondly, he’s stuck,” Sam gestures again, this time pointing more explicitly to the rug they’ve drawn on and rolled out under the couch, “Trap. His idea, actually.”

Dean avoids his brother’s eyes, as Sam looks over. Sam is doing a great job of explaining anyway. He has nothing to add. It’s not like he has gone out of his way to offer Castiel some modicum of peace, inconveniencing himself in doing so, or anything. Dean has nothing to say.

Apparently Sam’s perfectly happy to elaborate anyway. “We sort of figured that you’d be uncomfortable with us right now, but since we weren’t going to just leave you, well...” Sam pauses to frown at his laptop, “In a way I suppose I’m worse than Dean, right? Can’t exactly contain me; I’m too human for that. But I suppose that’s easily solved,” Sam grabs the Impala’s keys from the desk and Dean narrows his eyes just slightly at him, “I can leave. And I promise not to scratch her Dean, dammit. You okay with that, Cas?”

There’s the shortest moment where Dean can see Cas contemplating why his opinion on Sam’s likelihood of scratching the car would be relevant either way, before he catches up. Dean feels as though he is waiting for the ruling in a criminal case.

“That is acceptable, Sam.”

Sam waves and disappears out the door. Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then he turns his head to face Castiel again, “Just you and me then, Cas.” At least his sight isn’t threatening to slide now. Keeping from upsetting Cas any more than he already has is important enough to Dean, to completely drown out his own desire to get a clearer look at the angel again.

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s not much to understand, Cas.”

“You’re a demon. The man I knew would rather have died than becoming a demon. And Sam... Dean, you are aware that your brother is drinking demon blood again, right?” What Castiel doesn’t say is that the man he knew also would always be more concerned about his brother than himself. Even the way things are now. Dean wonders if he _has_ changed, letting Sam be with the whole blood drinking-thing. But there is the tiny voice in his head, which keeps pointing out that it can only ever be a good thing that Sam is able to protect himself against demons, no matter how, now that he’s actually living with one.

“I know, Cas.” Dean fiddles a little where he is sitting. He sort of wishes he could pace. Or go look out the window. He doesn’t want to look at Castiel for what he says next, “You’re wrong, though. About me.”

“You don’t want to be a demon,” Castiel’s voice goes completely flat, and there is a hint of the wrath of a Heavenly warrior in it. Everything else aside, it reassures Dean to hear that.

“I don’t want to be a monster, Cas. There’s a difference there.” The difference is that Alistair and the Pit started to carve him into a demon years and years ago, and he hasn’t really felt complete since then.

Not until now.

“Cas, I’m still me. Mostly. Little less self-hatred, less feeling obliged to save the world. But I still know I _have_ my flaws, and I still _want_ to save the world. It’s just... I’m lighter. Less worried all the time. Not under so much pressure.” Castiel is staring at him when Dean finally looks up, “I realise that this might not make much sense to you, but I feel more like _me—_ ”

“ _This is not you_ ,” Castiel growls.

“—like I was meant to be. Like I used to be. You didn’t know me before Hell, Cas. I used to sleep through the night. I used to smile. I used to be calm,” Dean takes a deep breath. He’s gone too far already, “All the time you’ve known me, Cas, I’ve been angry. I’ve been contrary and difficult and a pain in the ass. I think, once upon a time... Once, I was somebody you could have liked.”

Castiel lets out a harsh breath, the last part of Dean’s little tirade seeming to derail him, “I _do_ like you.”

Dean really, really wishes he hadn’t come up with the idea of trapping himself.

“Hey guys, there’s a diner practically around the corner. How lucky can you be?” Sam enters the room noisily and dumps the food he is carrying on the table before even looking up. There’s something in his eyes when his gaze meets Dean’s that Dean interprets to mean that his little brother didn’t want to leave his angel friend and demon brother alone for too long.

Dean thinks Sam has the best fucking timing in the world. (Dean knows he is a coward.)

 

* * *

 

Sam eats at the table. Dean demolishes his burger still sitting in the same spot on the couch. Castiel sits in the bed. The silence is oppressive.

“So, now what?” It is Sam who finally breaks the silence.

“We get packed up and head back to the bunker.” Dean tosses the wrapping from his food towards the bin. Even halfway across the room, at a partially blind angle, he makes his goal. He’s always had excellent aim. Then he stands and stretches.

Castiel flinches.

“He’s still trapped, Cas,” Sam’s voice is soft, and it grates on Dean’s nerves. It might have something to do with how the fact that he can’t get to Cas is supposed to reassure the angel.

“Yeah, I’ve got a cosy little spot here. Not much room to pace, but it could be worse, I guess.”

“I will not be accompanying you anywhere.”

Dean doesn’t have to look over at Sam to feel the ‘I told you so’ stare burning a hole into the side of his skull. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cas. You can’t stay here on your own. You’re sick.”

“I have been doing just fine, Dean,” there’s something in Castiel’s voice that Dean is only just starting to identify, “I will continue to do so.”

“No. You’re coming back with us. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere near you.” Castiel’s harsh words almost winds Dean, and he sits back down abruptly. It also doesn’t help that he finally recognises that note in the angel’s voice. It’s _pain_.

Sam winces, “Okay, how about we discuss that later? I’ve been thinking. We’re going to help you, Cas, that’s not a question,” the angel looks like he wants to protest, “But we don’t really know what we’re dealing with here. You said something about the stolen grace burning out and you loosing your powers again,” Castiel flinches at the word ‘stolen’, “but you were fine, if powerless before. Why’s it hitting you like this?”

For a long moment Dean doesn’t think Castiel is going to answer. He is sort of annoyed at his brother for burying the earlier argument, but he knows Sam is right. They need to know exactly what the fuck is going on.

Castiel sighs and looks at his hands folded in his lap, “Taking another angels grace is not a permanent solution. Grace is... Grace is _us_ the way your souls are you, but grace is also our... mojo, I suppose you would say. The two resonate and balance each other out. The grace that can be isolated – stolen – from an angel is the ‘mojo-part’,” Castiel glances up at the air quotes. Dean tries and fails to catch his eyes, “Removing it stops the resonance. It leaves us powerless and with something resembling a soul. To all effects and purposes, we become... no, not human. Mortal,” Castiel pauses.

Dean tries his best not to fiddle. Sam is leaned over the table, as though the foot or so closer that gets him, will help him better understand what the angel is talking about.

“The isolated power, the stolen grace, works just fine as that for any angel. For any being with the sufficient means and skills to use it, actually. But it is a finite amount of power. In taking it into me, I restarted the resonance. Only this grace and my being does not balance, and the grace is slowly being chipped away, even when I am not actively using it. Once it is gone, it will not be a clear cut as when Metatron took my own grace. The vibrations will continue, and it will be my very being that starts crumble. It...” Cas finally, finally meets Dean’s eyes, and Dean wishes it wasn’t for this, “Once I hit that point, it won’t take very long.”

Sam makes a choked sound, “That’s... horrible!” Dean wants to hit his brother. Hard. “Is there anything we can do to heal you – I mean the you-part of... you?” Yeah, if not for the trap there would definitely be hitting.

“No. Only my own grace could re-establish a true equilibrium. My mojo powers my being, and my being fuels my mojo. Recreating the resonance loop could potentially heal me. But my powers were bound in and used up by the spell Metatron used to seal off Heaven. There’s nothing left.”

“So what you’re saying,” the words feel like sulphuric ash in Dean’s mouth, “is that we can’t save your life.”

“Yes.” Castiel looks almost relieved, as though now that Dean finally gets it, maybe the brothers will leave him alone. Leave him to waste away and die in peace.

That is so not how Dean rolls, “Ever heard of life-extending treatment, Cas?” It’s just on this side of a snarl.

“There’s no way to treat this, Dean.” Castiel is sounding a little exasperated and a lot tired. Dean absently thinks they’ll need to get him to rest again soon.

“Let me just see if I understand this. There’s the wavelength of celestial intent and whatnot, you, and there’s the mojo-grace. The two interact, but because they don’t balance, the back and forth is wearing on you. Only as long as you have some of that spare grace, that buffers your actual,” Dean gesticulates helplessly, “being. Right?”

“That is a correct, if oversimplified, understanding.”

“Am I the only one who sees a glaringly obvious solution here then?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dean,” Sam’s voice clearly says that Dean needs to slow down and think about what he is saying.

But Dean doesn’t heed his brother’s caution, “All we need is to get you some new spare grace, and you’re good to go again. Not a permanent solution, but... Rinse, repeat.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow in a glare, “You’re suggesting another angel must die so I can _extend_ my life? You want to sacrifice one of my siblings every time I start to falter?” There’s more of the angelic wrath in Castiel’s voice now.

Dean gets that it is a crappy situation, he really does. But he doesn’t think Cas realises exactly how the situation looks from his spot on the couch. Dean has never liked the other angels. A few have been okay, but to him, most of them have never been more than dicks with wings. And he is watching his best friend dying slowly. Dean has done worse to keep those he loves alive.

Dean really hopes that Cas knows he features in that group. He thinks he has shown it over the years. He doubts he’ll ever be able to actually say it.

“You said it yourself, Cas. If done right, nobody has to die.”

“You would subject my brothers and sisters to being grounded here. Do you have any idea how confusing, how frustrating you humans are? Death would be kinder.” Dean would be intimidated by the deep growl in Castiel’s voice, but he is too busy studying the rapidly paling pallor of the angel’s skin.

“Dude, lie down.”

The non-sequitur seems to throw Castiel for a moment. Then his face contorts into a snarl, “You’re not taking me seriously.”

It’s not that. But Dean is actually worried the angel is going to pass out. Again. He throws a helpless glance at Sam. Sam for his part looks to be deep in thought.

“Can we back up for a moment?” Sam’s voice is still a little distant, as though he isn’t entirely done with whatever it is he is working through. “Dean has a point—” A new growl from Castiel cuts him off, and Sam finally seems to fully return to the conversation, “—not what I meant! But you need to take it easy, Cas. ‘Cause I need you awake for this. Please?”

Even after all these years, Dean is impressed with his little brother’s ability to talk somebody down in just a sentence and a half. The only thing Dean can accomplish in as few words would be to rile someone up. Castiel moves a bit further down in the bed, supporting himself with the pillows into a half-sitting position.

“I get what you’re saying about sacrificing your siblings, okay,” Castiel looks apprehensive, “and we won’t go there unless it’s absolutely necessary—”

“You won’t go there at all,” Castiel is starting to sit back up.

Sam raises his hands in the universal sign of surrender, “Hear me out. Please?” He waits for Castiel to nod and lean back before he continues, “If we have to resort to stealing another angel’s grace, we,” Sam gestures to all three of them, “have no shortage of enemies. We won’t harm any of your siblings that don’t have it coming. That’s the best we can do.”

Castiel seems to seriously consider using Sam’s pause to lodge another protest. But Sam looks back up and meets his eyes before he can speak. Then he looks to Dean. Though his expression is tentative, Dean knows the look in Sam’s eyes, and he can feel the grin sneaking onto his face. Anything that’ll keep him from arguing with Cas right now feels like a win. “There is another option.”

“Yeah, there is. But it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“What is it, Sam?”

“You said before that stolen grace could be used not just by other angels, but by anyone with the skill set to handle it?”

“Yes, Sam. I do not see how this is relevant, however.”

“Who do you think would be able to handle that kind of power? Who would want to try?”

Sam is still looking at Castiel, but it’s Dean who answers, “Sure, most witches would love to try, but really... The Men of Letters?”

“Exactly!” Sam turns to look at his brother, “I am almost sure I’ve come across a reference which in retrospect seems to be talking about angel’s grace, in the old files in the bunker. More specifically something about how someone finally managed to successfully _harvest the brilliant light of divine power_.”

Dean can’t help but interrupt, “Sounds like grace to me. There’re fireworks enough to qualify the light-comment, at least.”

“And there’s the part about it being harvested. Which means it could still be in the bunker,” Sam is getting excited, too.

“There’s nothing to suggest the rapport actually talks of grace. The idea of a human managing to obtain an angel’s grace is absurd.” The brothers both turn to look at the angel. Dean can feel the incredulity shape his expression.

“Wow, don’t sound too optimistic.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Cas is right, Dean. There is a chance that it is not grace. There’s also a chance we won’t be able to find it. But there’s something else, too. If it isn’t grace... This was one of the files on alchemy. What if somebody managed to create, _to grow_ , something resembling grace?”

“That seems highly implausible, Sam.” But there’s a trace of uncertainty in the angel’s voice now. Maybe even a ghost of hope. That’s one ghost Dean’s definitely not going to shoot down.

“As I said, I don’t really know anything about it at all. I wasn’t paying any special attention when I was reading it. And that’s yet another thing. I’m not entirely sure which file I read it in. I know I can find it again, I do have some idea, but it could take time... And I don’t know how much of that we’ve got,” Sam looks very pointedly at the angel half-slumping in the bed.

For a while nobody says anything. Dean finds himself wishing he could pace once again.

With a sigh, he stands at least, “How about this. We get your stuff together, and we hit the road. We all three go back to the bunker and we try or damned best find this thing. If we start to run short on time, we go to plan B. But even if we’re forced to do that, we keep looking. Even if the file Sammy’s talking about doesn’t help, we try for ourselves. Create grace, or something which will serve the purpose of buffer, at least. We don’t stop till we find something which works.”

Castiel and Sam are both looking at him. Sam, at least, looks approving. Dean has a harder time reading the angel. He knows that this plan doesn’t change the fact that they might very well be looking at having to kill one of Castiel’s dick brothers. But it won’t be the first time, nor most likely the last, and Dean hopes Cas will let them help him.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Cas pushes himself back up to a sitting position. There’s something buried deep in his eyes, but he represses it before Dean can decipher the look. “We will try this. I... I will trust you to help me. Even if you’re...” He looks down and away. “There is one good thing to my current state, Dean. I can only barely sense that you’re a demon. And I can’t see it.”

Dean misses a beat, before he gets out, “Small blessings.” He almost doesn’t sound choked.

Silence.

“So, Cas, you okay with me getting Dean out of the trap now?”

“Yes, Sam.”

Sam gets up and flips the edge of the rug over, so the trap folds in on itself, part of the edge covered. Dean takes a step forward and then stretches long and languidly, making his joints creak. He moans a little, which earns him a slap from Sam.

“I’ll take the duffel out to the car. Give Cas a hand with his stuff?” There’s a moment’s suspense as Sam pauses, probably to give Castiel a chance to protest, though his question was directed at Dean.

Dean represses a sigh. Castiel doesn’t want to be an inconvenience. It’s basically a part of his make up. If Dean’s not very wrong, the fact that the angel needs help at all is already going to irk him. No way he is going to speak up about how he would rather have this go. Dean would definitely prefer to be the one helping him. Doesn’t mean Cas would prefer that.

“I can take the bag out, if you’d prefer, Cas?” Dean cannot make himself meet the eyes of either his brother or the angel.

There’s a slight pause, then, “Go ahead, Sam. We will be out shortly.”

Dean waits till Sam has left the room before he turns to Cas. Their eyes catch, and for a long moment they remain motionless, just staring.

There’s something, just under the surface, urging Dean to let his sight slide. It is the odd urge to stare straight at the sun knowing full well that it will blind you. But he isn’t going to do it. Not to spare his eyes, but rather to spare his friend. Dean sighs and breaks the eye contact.

“How are you really, Cas?” Dean sits gingerly on edge of the bed. He isn’t looking at Castiel, but at least he’s just in the periphery of the oft-disputed personal space. Maybe more, considering that Cas is in bed, only half dressed.

Castiel doesn’t answer. Dean lets it go. (It kills him a little.)

“Okay, just one question. What the fuck is up with the tee, man?” Dean half turns so he can look at Cas. His smile earns him a tiny quirk of the angel’s lips. Dean grins.

“It is rather colourful, isn’t it?”

“And then some,” Dean makes to stand back up.

“Dean, wait,” Castiel reaches out for him, and the instant the angel’s hand lands on his arm Dean hisses, yet he doesn’t pull away. It burns, but it only takes Dean a fraction of a second to decide that it is a good burn. Also, it is fading fast, as though the longer they maintain the connection, the more desensitised he becomes. He wonders if Castiel feels it; the angel remains impassive.

“What is it, Cas?”

“I can’t... How are _you_ , Dean?” There’s still something guarded in the angel’s eyes, but there’s longing in the tone. Castiel wants to believe him, Dean realises. He wants to believe that Dean is just Dean, demon or not.

Might just be that Castiel no more wants to lose Dean than Dean wants to lose him. It’s a sobering thought.

“I’m good, Cas. It’s... different. New. Not necessarily bad. There are some things, urges... I don’t know. It’s nothing I can’t control. I’m not a monster. So long as that’s true... I can live with being a demon.”

“Dean...” Most of the time Dean loves when Castiel says his name. No one can put quite so much meaning into a single word as the angel. But right now, he wishes it wasn’t so. He hears what Cas isn’t saying. Dean might be fine with being a demon. Castiel not so much.

“Cas, before... Just before I... died. With the blade. I wasn’t in control of myself then, even less than I am now. And somehow it was harder for me to make the distinction between what was necessary and what was just possible. I was becoming a monster already then, Cas. I’m no more so now. I’m just, well, calmer, and it makes it a little easier to control it.”

Castiel shakes his head, “Help me up?”

Dean can recognise the end to a conversation when it hits him over the head with a crowbar, “Sure.”

All things considered helping Castiel get ready to leave is a lot less awkward than Dean thinks it should have been. He finds sweatpants and socks for the angel and starts gathering his few belongings, while Castiel puts on his pants, and Dean has to help him with the socks, because his friend is too dizzy to bend over and put them on himself.

“I’m not going to let you go, Cas. No matter what it takes. Understand?” Dean keeps his eyes on Castiel’s feet, knelt in front of the angel in a parody of prayer.

“I know.” Castiel brushes the hair on the side of his head very lightly, and the almost non-existent touch becomes to much for Dean. He stands up and steps back out of the weird moment of intimacy. Taking a deep breath, he meets the angel’s eyes.

“You have to promise me something, Cas,” he waits a moment to see if Castiel understands how serious he is, “You need to let me, to let _us_ know when it gets bad. You need to give us fair warning so we can go out and find some replacement grace for you, if we have to. You need to at least give us a fighting chance.”

“Dean—”

“ _Promise me_ , Cas. I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

They hold each other’s gazes for another long moment.

“I will tell you, Dean. I swear.”

Dean nods, then grabs the almost empty bag of Cas’ belongings. Then he steps up to the bed and helps the angel stand. Castiel leans heavily on Dean’s side as they make their way out of the room. Dean doesn’t mind the weight; it feels real.

Sam is sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, iPod in his ears, reading something on his phone. He only spares a glance as Dean helps Castiel into the back seat, possibly keeping his hands on his friend’s arms a little longer than is strictly necessary for support. Only once Dean opens the door to the driver’s seat does Sam look up. His expression is thankfully neutral.

“I checked Cas out. We can probably be back in the bunker tonight if we drive without pause,” Sam tucks his iPod away as Dean settles in his seat.

“Let’s get going then,” he says, throwing the angel a look in the rear view mirror.

Dean has his car and his family, and they are going home. His brother is addicted to demon blood, his angel is slowly (or maybe not so slowly) dying. And Dean himself is a demon. But right now, he is okay. They’re together. That’s all Dean’s ever had at anytime, and he’s damn well going to fight to keep it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: 20th of February.


	4. A Ghost of Friendship

  

By the time Cas has been with them in the bunker for a week, Dean really wants to kill something. It’s a well-known urge, too, one that’s born from frustration and has less to do with his newly acquired infernal tendencies than with the mostly luckless search for a way to help his angel.

Sam hasn’t managed to relocate the file in which he originally found the reference to ‘divine light’ yet. He’s optimistic enough, though, and if that was the only problem, his good mood could have carried Dean. But it never rains.

Dean doesn’t know what he had expected from living with Cas. But he had expected _something_ , and that might just be the problem. Castiel is worse than they thought. Even if he is in the same building as the brothers now, they barely see him. He sleeps almost constantly and when he is awake he moves slowly and unsteadily if he even deigns to leave his room at all. He won’t eat, though Dean has done his best to convince him that he needs all the strength he can get. (“Human food doesn’t _do_ anything for me, Dean.” “But I swear, you’re _losing weight_ , Cas!”)

Worst of all, however, is the way Castiel reacts to Dean. It makes Dean want to _hurt_ someone. Castiel startles if he comes up behind him too fast. He stares at Dean when Dean isn’t looking (and that’s not new, but the averting his eyes, when Dean does look over...). And he’s made it very clear, though without ever speaking the words, that Dean are not to come into the room he is using.

Sam takes a couple of files to Castiel so he doesn’t have to get out of bed. Later he just brings him light reading for entertainment. Dean goes off to seethe with anger discretely.

His eyes hurt and his body burns when he refuses to give into the rage. But Dean’s had worse aches.

Through it all, Castiel keeps insisting that he is fine. There’s nothing Dean can do, but to trust his friend’s promise that he will let them know in advance if he takes a turn for the worse – before it is too late. In the meantime he has to deal with not seeing, let alone talking to Cas any more often, for all that he is living with them now.

It is Sam and the damn trials all over again.

  

* * *

  

Dean knows that watching the news isn’t exactly a way to relax, even if it’s just the local station and the worst thing they have to report is the increased shoplifting from a gas station after a school opened just down the street from it a year previously. (Dean actually snorts out loud at that one. Seriously, what did they expect?)

But it is the little fun fact story that the anchor is rounding off the broadcast with that really catches his attention.

“Less than an hour’s drive from our borders, just outside Gravette, Arkansas Arts has opened an early 19th century mansion to the public. The former owner, now late Mrs. Horne, and the last four generations of her family have been covering any available surface with watercolour paintings, creating art which, and I quote, ‘should be saved for posterity, and _must_ be shared with the public’. The project has been underway for almost two years, suffering various delays, but finally opened on the 8th. However, in the less than two weeks since Horne House’s official opening, they have suffered no less than seven different water-related incidents, which altogether have closed the new art gallery for eleven out of the twelve days it should have been open. None of the decorated walls have suffered so far, but there are definitely some new patterns added to the floors. It gives a whole new meaning to ‘water paintings’, doesn’t it?”

As the overly cheery newscaster passes the ball onto the weather girl (with another bad joke), Dean starts drumming a rapid beat on his thigh. It’s not just the story. It is the footage too, especially the shots of a wildly gesticulating guide that, though muted, speaks clearly of someone who’s seen something they can’t explain. And there’re other things too, little details that he only registers because he has grown up in the life, and which only means something because they are all there.

It takes him 20 minutes with Sam’s laptop looking into the delays during the preparation of the old mansion for him to be sure. Laptop in hand he walks to the library where Sam is still trawling through files.

Sam looks up as he enters, and the room’s other occupant startles. Dean momentarily forgets what he meant to say, as Castiel looks at him and then quickly adverts his eyes. Dean walks slowly over to the table and does not take the seat next to Cas.

“Dean. What’re you doing?” Dean looks questioningly at his brother, “I told you to get out of here, not an hour ago, to go take a break or something. The only thing you’re achieving here is disturbing me!”

Sam has been reading old, dusty files for a week straight. He doesn’t even have the comfort of its being new material – he’s been through all of these before. Dean is prepared to make excuses for him. “I _was_ taking a break—”

“Great! Can you go back to that, please? And maybe take Cas with you? The staring doesn’t exactly help. And I need to—”

“Sam. Sam!” Dean has to raise his voice to stop his brother, “Slow down. I’m thinking you might be the one who needs a break—”

“I’m not the one who’s been staring at the files as though contemplating how to kill them most painfully—”

Dean ignores his brother’s mumble, “—but that’s not exactly news, and it wasn’t what I came in here to say.”

“What, then?”

“This.”

Dean doesn’t think about it; he puts the laptop down and leans over the table, bringing him a lot closer to Castiel. The angel startles visibly and Dean only just manages to repress his own flinch.

It’s not just the angel’s proximity that makes him want to flinch. He can feel it, just barely; stronger, but still mostly the same as he could when he was human. Dean supposes Cas can sense him, sense his demonic, twisted soul, in the same way. He suspects that’s why Castiel flinches. But the biggest reasons for Dean’s startled reactions are still Cas’.

He just can’t get his head around that Castiel suddenly wants to keep a (proper) distance.

“What is it?” Sam’s prompting makes Dean realise that he’s been quiet for too long. He represses the urge to curse and gently eases a little away from Castiel.

“I think I found a ghost. Or, actually, I think the local news station just found a ghost. Although I think they put the accidents down to karma or something.”

Sam skims the articles Dean has pulled up on the screen. A couple of minutes later he nods, “You could be right. Want me to get you Omar’s number, see if he can find somebody to take a look at it?”

Dean stares at Sam for a moment. He’s still very aware of Castiel sitting just off to his left. He bites his lip, “Actually, _I_ was thinking about taking a look at it.”

Sam raises his eyebrow. Castiel moves as well, but Dean refuses to look over. “I thought we had a project?” Sam gestures to the files on the table in front of him. Dean sighs.

“Yes, but it seems the main accomplishment of the last... two, three days at least, is that we have not bitten each other’s heads off yet,” Dean meets Sam’s eyes, “You told me to take a break. You’ve told me to, what, twenty times over the last few days? And it’s necessary, too, I don’t deny that, but if I hear you say it one more time...”

It’s not a threat. Dean feels perfectly in control of himself, the simmering murderous rage notwithstanding. He wants to break something, sure. But he isn’t about to attack Sam (or worse, because he probably would have less of a chance to defend himself right now, _Cas_ ). Not yet.

And that right there is part of the problem.

“I need to do something else, Sam. I can’t just sit here. Especially when you won’t even let me touch the files half the time. I need to _do_ something.” At least he has already told Sam of the need to kill somewhat explicitly. Cas doesn’t have to know that that plays a part in his need to get out, too.

“Okay. You’re right. I’m just... I’m afraid we’ll miss something, you know? If you look at a file that might ring a bell for me without being the right one, and then just discard it, and...” Sam shakes his head, “I would rather do this myself. It will take time, sure, but there’s not much left now. Another couple of days worth. Three, four at most.”

There’s no guarantee that they will have a solution in four days, though. And that is the other part of the problem. Dean wants to implement plan B, and he doesn’t think waiting is going to do them much good.

“You could go hunt the ghost in the meantime. Long as you can find out who and what’s keeping it there, it should be pretty straightforward. Maybe you can even make it back here by the time I’m done.”

“Yeah. And if, _when_ you find anything, you could give me a call. It’s only like, a four-hour drive from here. I could be here pretty fast.”

“Yeah, that could work. Maybe you could go with him?”

Dean thinks it’s possible Sam’s just gotten an aneurysm. It seems like the most plausible explanation for that suggestion. Castiel for his part looks startled.

Dean wants to shoot the suggestion down. He does want to take Cas, could even imagine that a cut-and-dry ghost hunt would be a good way to spend some quality time with his friend, but even without the whole jumping-out-of-his-skin-thing which occurs every time Dean gets too close, Castiel sleeps for about 23 hours a day. He is in no shape to hunt, angel or not.

Yet at the same time, Dean is very reluctant to say anything, anything at all, to suggest that he doesn’t want the angel’s company. He is still trying very hard to convince Castiel that he is no different for being a demon.

Castiel cuts Sam down himself, “Sam, I joined you less than half an hour ago, and I am about ready to return to my room. I am in no condition to hunt.”

Dean looks at him then, can’t help it, and he hates to see that Cas does look tired. Tired, and gaunt, and completely worn out. Yeah, Dean needs to get out and he needs to go alone. Maybe Castiel isn’t going to give them enough time to obtain some grace from another angel, maybe he just doesn’t realise how bad he is. But something needs to be done, and it needs to be done fast.

“I have to agree with Cas on this, Sam,” Dean’s locked eyes with Cas and he isn’t about to look away just because he addresses his little brother.

“It was just a thought,” Sam sounds uncomfortable. Dean thinks he should be. It was a stupid idea. Castiel’s eyes are the most fascinating blue he’s ever seen.

Castiel stands, breaking the connection, “I wish you luck with the hunt, then. I will retire now.” He wobbles, once, before he reaches the doorway, and Dean has to make a conscious effort to stay in his seat. As Castiel exits the room, Dean can just make out how he puts the hand to the wall to support himself, as soon as he thinks he’s out of sight. Dean turns his gaze to the table in front of him, clenching his jaw.

“You’re doing it again.”

Sam’s comment startle him into looking up, “What?”

“The whole, glaring at something to find a way to kill it. Painfully,” Sam cocks his head, “I don’t know if it is reassuring or more disturbing that you’re limiting the look to inanimate objects,” Sam grins.

Dean growls at him, but it is playful. He sobers quickly, though, “What the hell were you thinking, suggesting he come with me?”

Sam sighs, “I was thinking that you can see we’re running out of time, just as well as I can.”

“Yes! Isn’t that exactly why he should stay here and rest?”

“Dean, you want to go after an angel, don’t you?”

Dean flashes a quick look to the doorway and after a second’s hesitation lets his sight slide. The hallway is completely empty. Castiel has gone back to his room, just as he said he would. Of course he has. His eyes are green again as he turns back to Sam, “Of course.”

Sam just shakes his head slowly in exasperation, “You’re being stupid.”

“How the hell is helping Cas being stupid?”

“Going after a full-blown angel is stupid.”

“I’ve fought angels before, Sam.”

“Not as a demon, you haven’t!” Sam quickly lowers his voice again, apparently as wary of having Castiel walk in on the discussion as Dean.

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything, you idiot. There’s going to be nothing, _nothing_ left in any angel holding them back from smiting you on the spot. And they’re going to do that, and it’s going to be so much _easier_ for them now!”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a _demon_ , Dean. You can’t pick a fight with an angel. They could bloody well yell at you with their true voice, and your brain would most likely turn to mush.”

Dean fists his hands and takes a deep breath. He could argue, but he doesn’t particularly want to. In fact, he thinks the best plan is to concede the point, “Fuck. You’re right.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t thought of this, Dean.”

“I just...”

“You want to help Cas. I get it, man. I get it. But you need to keep your head.”

“What the fuck are we supposed to do then, Sam?”

Sam smiles slightly at him, and though it is faint, it is genuine, “We’re going to hope this works out. I still believe it could. But if it doesn’t, we’re going to hunt down an angel to use together. And Dean? I know what I said back when we discussed this with Cas, but... I suppose I’m every bit as tired of seeing our friends suffer and die as you are. Demon, demon blood... It doesn’t matter. Even without any of it, fact remains that this is Cas, and the angels in general have never cared much for us, so...” Sam’s eyes turn hard, “If I can’t find anything here, we hunt down an angel. Any angel.”

Dean nods. He remembers a time when his brother was young, and innocent, and where he would have done anything to protect him. The latter remains a fact, but he cannot mourn the loss of the former now. “Good. But time’s running out.”

“I agree, but I don’t think it’s quite as bad as you think. I’ve been watching Cas – no, not like you, more, ah, systematically – he’s still got quite some way to go. We still have time, Dean. At least a month, if I’m not very wrong.”

“But we won’t know for sure, will we Sam, not until the resonance or whatever starts to destroy his actual essence, and then... He said it wouldn’t be long,” there’s something curling in Dean’s chest, seeping into his voice, and he doesn’t know if it is anger or desperation or a noxious combination of both.

“We have time. We might not have to go behind his back. Let me finish this. Go hunt a ghost. Come back in four days and we’ll know where we stand.”

Dean gives Sam a long look. “Okay.”

  

* * *

  

Dean gathers what he needs in the duffel in his room. His weapons are part of the walls’ decoration, and he takes a moment to glance around before he moves any of them. When he came back to the bunker with Sam, these were part of the reason it felt like coming home.

He packs a couple of shotguns and what is probably a ridiculous amount of salt rounds. Then he pauses. He has a couple of different knives on the wall, none of which would be efficient against a ghost. But then again, it could be something else. Or he could run into something more than whatever haunts the old mansion (to be fair, he is sort of hoping to, after all).

Dean decides to bring a silver knife. With silver and salt and his handgun, he should have all the basics covered. And he likes this knife; it’s as long as his forearm and slightly curved. It’s a nice blade.

Dean used to prefer guns. He’s always been adept at handling any kind of weapon to fall into his hands (makeshift ones included), but guns offer range, and range offers security when the thing you’re hunting wants to go for your throat with claws and fangs. That has changed, though. There’s something to the feel of a knife in his hand, the swish of the blade that feels almost like an extension of his own arm.

(There was another blade, the Blade, that felt more like an extension of his entire being, but he doesn’t think about that. He tries very hard not to think about that. He doesn’t want to know.)

Dean’s mostly prepared, but there is one more thing he ought to bring. An angel’s blade. He doesn’t have one of those in his room, but that doesn’t mean he and Sam haven’t got a few by now. When angels started dying left, right and centre, they sort of stopped being a commodity. The only problem is getting one without Sam’s noticing.

Dean knows Sam means well. And it would have been a valid point that Sam had raised, if Dean had actually been just another demon. But the fact that Sam can even think so, and more than that, seems to _rely_ on that fact, rubs Dean the wrong way. Dean knows that if he wanted, he could take a fight to Sam, which Sam might be hard-pressed to win.

Dean’s not just another demon. Dean’s a Knight. Dean’s the only Knight left.

He wonders why it is that Sam doesn’t realise this, or doesn’t seem to pay it any heed. Perhaps it is because Dean is being so pliant. He is being sensible and calm, and okay, that might not have added up to demon in his book, either. But it’s bullshit, and both he and Sam knows it. Cain seemed scarily reasonable; not even when he went back to killing did he leave reason entirely behind. And Crowley has always been able to scheme and deal without screaming bloody murder. Even Ruby knew how to play her role.

(Dean doesn’t think about Meg. There’re various reasons.)

His point is, all the demons they’ve actually gotten to know have mostly behaved calmly. Human. Sure, their ethics have been twisted all to Hell (literally) along with their souls, but their actual, everyday behaviour... Perfectly sensible citizens.

But there’s more to Dean’s status than his being able to keep a level head. If he runs into an angel on this hunt, he will go for the kill. He might be a demon, but he is not necessarily more susceptible to the angels’ powers now. In fact, probably less. Neither Cain nor Abaddon were taken down by angels. Even Alistair would have won his fight against one if Sam hadn’t interfered. (Dean does wonder what it says about his and Sam’s relative powers, but it will never come to the test, so it doesn’t really matter.)

He wonders how big a change his death (and subsequent demonification) has made in Sam’s perception of him and his abilities. Hell, he meant to go after Metatron with the First Blade, would have killed the dick with it, angel tablets or no. The thought that he can’t fight angels as he is now is ludicrous. But he doesn’t feel like investing the time it will take to convince Sam of this. (Also, his brother has been very accommodating in accepting his new state of (after)life. No reason to jeopardise that.)

When he takes the bag back upstairs, Sam is still sitting in the library. Dean makes his way to the weaponry unnoticed. The angel blade goes into the duffel, the zip is closed, and he thinks he is in the clear. He even manages to mentally laugh at himself for thinking it would be hard to get to one of the blades.

Then he turns, and comes face to face with the resident angel.

Dean startles, much like he used to do before he got used to Castiel’s pendant for appearing suddenly and just a little too close. And he is close now. Dean breaths in, and he gets a whiff of ozone, of that smell he always associated with Castiel and only recently has started identifying as angel. There is a smell that’s distinctly Cas, too, though. It’s warm skin and Dean’s own shampoo, underlaid by a faint odour of someone who’s spent a week sick in bed.

“I thought you went back to sleep?”

“You’re taking an angel blade on a ghost hunt.”

“Dude, I think this is the most awake you’ve been within 24 hours since you got here.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice grows more insistent. Dean decides to play dumb.

“Sorry, sorry, I was just distracted. What were you saying? Are you sure you’re okay to be moving around? The blade?”

“Yes, Dean, the blade.”

Not the Blade _,_ though. (But Dean doesn’t think about it!)

“Can’t be too careful, man. Not really in a state to be picking fights with angels, you know.”

“Dean, we both know that you are no common demon.”

Dean didn’t actually know that they both knew. Sam seems kind of ignorant after all. He feels the urge to point this out, “Not what Sam thinks.”

“Don’t insult me. My powers may be greatly limited, but I am not naïve,” Castiel doesn’t really have sufficient energy to growl, Dean thinks. That thought makes him want to actually go hunt down an angel, rather than just preparing for the eventuality of running into one.

He raises his hands, “Sorry, Cas. Didn’t mean to. All the same, I’ll feel better with a weapon that can actually do jack squat, if I need it.”

“So you’re not intending to, ah, go to plan B? The ghost hunt is not just an excuse for you to leave?”

“Cas, man,” Dean leans back against the table in the middle of the room, “It is sort of an excuse, but I’m not leaving to hunt down one of your siblings. I am going to gank a ghost, ‘cause I need to do something,” he looks up and meets Castiel’s stare, “Also, Sam says he’s been monitoring you. He gives you about a month before things get really messed up. He right about that?”

Castiel keeps the eye contact for a long moment without speaking. Then he nods once, almost imperceptibly, “The grace in me will buffer my being for another 24 days, before it is completely burned out.”

“You can tell? With that kind of accuracy? And when, exactly, were you going to say anything?” a slight growl sneaks in to the last part of the comment.

“Eventually. I would have left you enough time to implement your plan B,” Castiel sneers slightly at the thought, “but Sam is making progress with the files. He is bound to make a discovery soon.”

“I hope so, Cas. I really do.”

“Do you?”

Dean turns around and leans over the table, facing away from Castiel. “Do you honestly think I enjoy doing anything that would cause you pain?” His voice is very silent.

“I,” this actually seems to give Castiel pause, “The Mark which turned you into a demon as well as your very nature now should demand that you kill. Killing angels...” Cas shakes his head; Dean can hear the rustle though his back is still turned, “But you don’t feel any such urges?”

Dean looks over his shoulder at the angel with a slight smile on his face, “I told you, I’m going to gank a ghost,” somehow Dean sounds more tired than Castiel for all that the angel looks like he is ready to collapse where he stands, “doesn’t make what I said any less true.”

Castiel doesn’t answer except for giving another tiny nod. He scoffs his feet. Dean shuffles slightly.

“Seriously, though. Should you be up?”

“I am feeling rather weary. I think I shall return to my room again.” Castiel only manages to turn around before he stumbles and has to catch himself against the wall. He stays there, as though it is all he can do to stay on his feet and moving is completely beyond him.

Dean makes sure to move slowly and make sound as he comes up next to him. At least Cas doesn’t flinch.

He hesitates for a moment, “Do you need help?” Castiel doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look over at him. Dean sighs, “Can I touch you?”

That prompts a reaction from the angel. Castiel’s head snap to the side and his eyes find Dean’s, “Why do you ask?”

“Come on, Cas, I’m not blind. I know how little you like being around me,” Dean looks away, “And I’m sorry. Even knowing that, I can’t just let you go. You’re stuck with me, us,” Dean chews his lips and hates the next words out of his mouth, “at least until you feel better.” Castiel makes a soft sound, and Dean looks back up at him, “If you want to go once we’ve gotten you back into shape, I won’t stop you, Cas. I swear. I just need to know you’ll be okay.” Dean doesn’t like how close his voice comes to sounding like a plea.

Another of their trademark staring contests follow. This time it is Cas who breaks the eye contact, “I would appreciate your help, Dean.”

Dean hesitates, then nods and pulls Castiel’s arm over his shoulder. He wraps his own arm around the angel’s waist, and tries not to notice the sharp jut of his hipbones.

“Will you do something for me?” they’ve only made it a few steps out of the room when he asks, keeping his gaze ahead.

“What is it, Dean?” Castiel sounds calm, and if he had only his friend’s voice to go on, Dean wouldn’t know that anything was wrong. But he’s got the sensation of bone under his hand, too, and that’s the problem.

“Try eating something. I know it’s not supposed to do anything for you, and maybe it won’t, but if there’s even the slightest chance it could help...?” Also, it will make Dean easier, but he doesn’t say.

He probably doesn’t have to, either. “If you wish.”

Dean glances over at the angel. They’re almost to his door, “I’m sure Sam’ll help you find something you’ll like. Maybe pancakes? Sam makes decent pancakes.”

Dean stops outside the open door to Castiel’s room and gently extricates himself from under the angel’s arm. He leaves his hand resting lightly on Cas’ back to offer some support.

Castiel looks confused, “Dean?” His eyes dart from Dean’s face to his bed and back.

“You don’t want me in there, Cas,” Dean doesn’t know where the hurt in his voice comes from, he doesn’t, he swears. It still makes Castiel suck in a startled breath.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel shrug out from under Dean’s hand, and instead clasps his wrist in a surprisingly strong hold. Dean is dragged into the room, and though Castiel sways unsteadily on his feet, he makes it to his bed and plops down, fingers still locked on Dean’s arm.

Dean stares at him.

“I didn’t realise... I didn’t _think_ ,” Dean thinks Castiel sounds almost contrite, “I apologise, Dean.”

“No, Cas, you’ve got nothing to apologise for.” The protest is reflexive; Dean doesn’t even know what Cas is apologising for, anyway.

“I do, though. I have observed that you have retained a part, possibly even a very large part of who you were, of your feelings and behavioural patterns. Even so, I have refused to let you care for me, and in this way I have hurt you.”

Dean stares some more. Castiel is right, of course, not being able to do something – however inefficient – has been killing Dean (not that he would ever admit it), but the whole avoiding him and jumping every time he comes near has been so much worse. Yet now he is standing less than a foot in front of Cas sitting on the bed. They haven’t been this close since Dean had to half carry him into the bunker when they got there.

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for, Cas,” Dean makes his voice stay steady and stern. It’s easier that way, anyway.

“Dean,” Cas looks down and finally lets go. He doesn’t continue.

“Cas?” Dean squats in front of the bed to get them to eye level. The next instant he feels kind of ridiculous for it. His knees protest loudly (though luckily inaudibly). Cas meets his eyes again.

“Just _be careful_ , okay? I don’t... I don’t want to lose you again. Not when there’s even the tiniest part of me that thinks, I might actually have gotten you back. Even if,” he flounders and trails of with half a gesture in Dean’s general direction.

“Even if it’s in a slightly darker version?” Dean keeps his voice level.

“You’re not evil, Dean. You are, you have always been a good man. Even Hell cannot fully corrupt that in you.”

“If it didn’t all those years ago, it won’t now,” Dean pauses, “I haven’t been back, you know. Not more than... once.”

Castiel looks genuinely surprised by this piece of information, “But Sam was looking for you for months.”

“Yeah, I’ve tried the whole hanging around in Hell for a coupla months. No need for a repeat performance.”

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve been hanging around.”

“But how,” Castiel furrows his brow, as though something’s just occurred to him, “How, then, do you travel?”

“I’ve been nicking a car here and there...” Dean trails off at the look Castiel is giving him. It takes him a second to catch up. “Oh. I don’t.”

“That seems like,” Castiel considers, “an unnecessary limitation to submit yourself to.”

“Unnecessary my ass. It keeps me out of Hell.”

“But the ability to travel across the globe in less than seconds... You would forego that?”

“I’ve only done it once. When I first woke up here, I decided I needed to get out, get away from Sam, from my life, everything. I couldn’t stay here the way I was. It wasn’t even a conscious decision to do it like that. Next second I found myself in Hell. Imagine my surprise,” Dean’s voice turns slightly bitter, “Not a site I needed to revisit. And then I was back out.”

It sounds simple, and it was. Still, Dean did not like the short stopover. He used to think that the nightmares hadn’t gotten better over the years, but they had. Impossible as it had seemed at times, the memories of Hell had dimmed some. He really hadn’t wanted to get those images refreshed, and he hadn’t even ended up in the Pit proper. Yet what he told Sam is true. When he sleeps now, he dreams; he doesn’t have nightmares. But the fact that Hell, now in all the vividness of a fresh memory, doesn’t repulse or scare him into insomnia any more, freaks him out in turn. He doesn’t want any sort of tolerance for Hell. Actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with Hell at all.

“But to move with that speed... don’t you miss it?”

“I’ve only done it the once, Cas. I’m used to travel like a sane human being. The only other times I’ve gone somewhere that fast has been when you’ve given me a lift.”

Castiel goes very still, “I miss my wings.” Ah, so that is the problem.

“We’ll find a way to fix you, Cas.”

“Getting me more grace won’t restore my wings.”

“We’ll figure something out, okay? It’ll be okay,” Dean puts his hands on Cas’ knees, both to get the angel’s attention, but also because he really needs the support by now. His own knees hurt, and he doesn’t think its fair that he feels aches like that, when he is technically already dead.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean nods once and stands. He manages to repress the urge to grimace as he straightens his legs (as much as he ever can). Castiel lies back on the bed and draws the duvet over him. Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how weird it is to see Cas like that. He represses the urge to tuck the angel in.

“I should get going,” he pauses slightly, but starts towards the door at Castiel’s nod.

“Dean?” He turns back, one hand on the door frame. “Where did you go? When you got back out, I mean.”

“Told you, Cas, not much conscious thinking on my part. I ended up in that same clearing. Above ground this time, though,” he smiles teasingly, “I walked to the gas station where you first tried to talk to me again. It’s completely abandoned now, and the windows are still busted, but it sort of reminded me of you. Good times.”

Castiel shakes his head, but there is a fond light in his eyes.

“Get some rest, Cas. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Dean thinks it’s off to a good start, at least. If he’s not much mistaken he has just gotten his best friend back. That goes a long way towards alright in his book.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does the part about teleporting and Hell make sense?  
> Next update: February 28th


	5. Dealer's Choice

 

Dean stops at a small burger joint just off the highway on his way back. He’s in no hurry – apparently there are now index cards to go through, and right now he cannot be bothered. He will need to do some cataloguing of his own when he gets back anyway.

The grigery talisman is carefully tucked away in a paper bag on the front seat next to him. It is probably not a very safe way to contain it, but he didn’t actually think to bring a curse box with him. Also, he’s already handled the amulet. Either it is uncommonly benign, or the power in it is not nearly strong enough to affect him.

Dean’s placing his bet on the latter explanation.

He takes the bag with him when he goes inside. It is a potentially dangerous, dark object, and he probably shouldn’t leave it out of sight. Also, he doesn’t want it sitting in his front seat if some opportunist comes by and decides it might be something worth stealing. (He feels bad for any human dumb enough to mess with his Baby now. He doesn’t think he has self-control enough to deal with that.)

He sits down in one of the stalls and orders the biggest burger on the menu. He hasn’t eaten much these last few days; he might as well splurge.

“Is this seat taken?”

Dean looks up, half expecting the waitress back with his burger. Instead his eyes find a beautiful woman with chocolate skin and a short halo of dark hair. Her smile is wide and there’s a teasing glint in her eyes. Dean cannot help his answering smirk, “It is now.” He gestures for her to sit.

“So, what brings you to this nice... little... Hell, I don’t even know where we are?” The brunette laughs lightly and earns an evil glare from the waitress setting Dean’s burger down in front of him. “I’ll have a coffee, please.”

Dean shakes his head as the waitress walks away, “Bumfuck nowhere,” she raises one perfectly arched eyebrow at him, “That’s where we are.”

She smiles again, “Huh, that’s right. How _could_ I forget.”

Dean grins, slowly chewing his food. His companion’s coffee arrive. “So, what’re you doing here?”

“Just passing through. Seems like the thing to do here, after all.”

“I hear you,” he scoops up another fry, “What’s got you on the road?”

The brunette shamelessly steals a fry for herself. Dean raises both his brows at her. “Business trip,” she answer shortly.

She looks the type, too. She’s in a smart suit jacket and matching skirt. Her shoes are a discreet black, but still high-heeled. Dean halfway considers to let his sight slide to check if her cream shirt is really silk.

“What, all work and no play?” Dean can’t help himself and accompanies the comment with a cocky grin.

“That depends...”

“Yeah?”

“On whether my business is successful, of course,” she answers his grin in kind and steals another fry from his plate.

“And how’s that looking?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s still up in the air, really. I haven’t made a move yet. I suspect my dealer’s going to drive a hard bargain.”

Dean takes another bite of his burger and refrains from making any comments about ‘driving’ and ‘hard’. He suspects his companion knows, based on the slight smirk she hides behind her coffee cup. Dean finishes his food (still with occasional help). The brunette finishes her coffee.

The waitress takes away his plate, and Dean asks for coffee for both him and his companion. The brunette smiles approvingly, “And do you have any pie?” The waitress confirms and Dean tilts his head at the woman across the table. She nods almost indulgently. “Two slices of pie, please.”

As the waitress walks away, it’s the brunette’s turn to shake her head, “Buying me coffee. Careful, or I might just mistake this for a date.”

Dean chuckles a little at her, “I still don’t know your name.”

“Mina. Mina Murray.”

“Nate Hamill,” Dean answers easily and extends his hand over the table.

He notices how the brunette’s answering smile is just a second late, before she reaches for his hand, but he hasn’t got a chance to react before their hands meet. The instant their skin connect, Dean feels a currant and his entire being _begs_ him to let his sight slide, to look closer, to figure out who or rather _what_ is in front of him. Dean manages to repress the urge, but only barely. He gets his answer anyway, because his companion, it seems, is incapable of fighting off the impulse. Her eyes flick a solid red.

Dean knows that colour all too well. “Sonuvabitch,” he hisses, finally letting go of the crossroad demon’s hand.

She falls back in her seat, her eyes returning to their soft light brown colour. Dean leans back, speechless. He wonders exactly how much she saw in that short second, even if he managed to repress the urge to let his own sight slide and reveal himself fully. He knows she must have seen enough, and now he wishes he had taken a closer look himself.

He decides to.

The waitress chooses that exact moment to put two cups of coffee and two generous helpings of blueberry pie between them. Dean baulks. “Thank you,” he manages to get out, and if his voice is steady, he supposes he’s been doing this since he was four and it had better be. The waitress retreats.

Even through his green irises, the female demon’s expression is worth watching. The initial shock clears to make room for disbelief, which quickly morphs into an almost arrogant understanding. Then that fails too, to make room for a different, slightly outraged disbelief.

“How come your body’s not torn to shreds?” The crossroad demon’s voice is shrill and it sounds downright offended. Dean is confused.

The whole being torn to shreds thing isn’t even much of a clue to go on. His occupation makes that particular fate a risk he faces on at least a weekly basis, and he’s had enough close calls that any number of people (beings, monsters) could be surprised to see him in one piece.

“Listen, Mina, or whoever you are...” And then it clicks. Not him. His body. With the suspicion of its being an alias, he recognises the name. Mina Murray is the love interest of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. She’s portrayed by Ellen (Helen, Helena?) Chandler in one of the old films. Dean’s met a woman once who called herself Mina Chandler, to hide her real (borrowed) name. A woman, whose body was torn to shreds. A woman whose soul was dragged to Hell by hellhounds (not a pleasant experience, he can testify), to eventually be twisted into a demon. “No way. Bela? _Abbie_?”

She actually hisses at him. It is an animal sound, “Not Abbie, never Abbie.”

Dean lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Bela?” he tries again.

“You didn’t know me a minute ago. Why now? _And why do you look like yourself_?” she’s still snarling, but more like a severely pissed of human than a beast from the pit now.

Dean marvels at how decidedly not worried he is about the situation. Used to be he would have a little (if always perfectly hidden) respect for the strength of demons. Now, not so much. But then again, there’re very few, if any, demons out there who’re stronger than him now. Especially not Bela. She must be so very young. Not that that explains why... “Why can’t I sense you?”

Bela gives him a calculating look. She seems to have calmed down some. “Baaras,” she touches a tiny golden locket around her neck, “treated right, it completely nullifies the presence of all demons at quite a range. Kind of a double-edged sword, though. Even if this is the first time I’ve been caught out by it. It doesn’t do anything against touch. But I certainly didn’t expect you of all people to be a demon, _Dean Winchester_.”

“What exactly did you expect, then, running into me here now? And why the hell did you approach me like this,” he waves his hand at her, indicating her lovely twisted, demonic soul, “if you expected me to still be human? A hunter?”

“Curiosity, I suppose. I figured you two idiots might just have found a way out of the contract. Guess I was wrong. You still haven’t answered me, though. _How_ did you get to keep your own body?”

Dean sighs. He doesn’t know what to tell her. Even if he wanted to tell her everything, he wouldn’t know where to _start_. “It’s a long story, Bela. It’s been a long time.”

Bela stiffens slightly. Dean decides its time to start eating the pie. The crossroads demon looks incredulous and it only intensifies when Dean hums in appreciation.

“What? It’s not the pie’s fault.” None of it is. Pie’s always good.

“You’re really completely unconcerned sitting opposite to a demon?”

Dean looks back up, “Yup.” He swallows another bite before pointing out, “For a demon you’re very young, honey. I don’t need to be able to sense you to tell that. It’s simple logic. Takes time to twist a soul, after all.”

“It does,” Bela’s gaze turns pensive. “That’s just the thing, though. I don’t get how you’re a demon. You were always such a goody-two-shoes. I can’t believe you got turned around so fast.”

Dean puts his fork down slowly. He really doesn’t want to think about certain things happening too fast in Hell. He can still just about feel the bad conscience over how quickly he broke the first time – like a phantom pain in a lost limb. He doesn’t like it.

Bela is looking at him intently. Dean picks his fork back up. “Are you going to answer any of my questions?”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t actually know. But you haven’t walked away yet. And,” Bela looks down, “you once said you would’ve helped me if I’d asked.”

Deans studies her. “I wouldn’t have expected you to get demonfied that quickly, either,” he says eventually.

Bela looks back up with a faint smile, “It seemed like the sensible thing to do. From a business perspective, you know. I didn’t fight it. I might even have helped it along,” Dean assumes she’s confident with telling him that, only because he’s a demon too, “It got me out. Fast. Career express lane.”

“How long,” Dean cuts himself off. He’s not sure he wants to know. And he can do the maths, anyway. Bela died before he went to Hell the first time. A month roughly equals a decade in the Pit. Ten Earth-years are well over a millennium in Hell.

And yet. And yet Dean knows things, knows what Alistair taught him, remembers what the white-eyed demon told him. And a millennium? That’s not long enough to completely destroy a human soul.

Dean throws a glance around the restaurant. It’s almost empty, and no one are anywhere near them. Then he looks back at Bela, and finally looks deeper.

Bela lets him, but leaves her eyes brown. Behind them he can see how her soul twists, jarred so badly that it is unrecognisable as anything even remotely human. But it lacks something, some of the thorniness, some of the sharp edges. There are some, but they are not predominant. Her soul is twisted, but it is also smooth. Dean slides his sight back. He wonders if it is because of her cooperation and the resulting relatively short stay or if it’s just, well, Bela. A crossroads demon. She would be. Deals are just her thing.

Dean finally speaks again, “It was,” he catches her eyes and clarifies, “My body. It _was_ torn to shreds.” He chews his lip uncertainly, “Hell didn’t turn me into a demon. Not then. Not now” Bela snorts, and Dean glares. She quietens down. “I got pulled out.”

This time Bela cannot hold the sound of disbelief back, “That’s impossible.”

“Not for an angel, it’s not.”

There’s a pause where none of them even breathes, “ _What_?”

Dean exhales, “An angel pulled me out of Hell. Shit happened, and the world almost ended. Then the world almost ended again, and stopping that resulted in setting off a new end of the world. When the world got round to its, I think fourth, attempt of suicide, I got stuck with the Mark of Cain. Long story short, I died and voilá, instant demon.”

Bela is looking at him like he has gone off the deep end. The cliffs note version of the last decade of his life suggests that he should have, he assumes.

“Anyway, the world was saved again, and it’s off suicide watch. For now. Until the next megalomanic angel, or demon, or leviathan, or whatever the fuck comes along. Welcome back,” he grins cheerily at Bela. She’s right. He probably is a little mad by now.

Bela looks at him for a long, long moment. Dean can practically hear the wheels spinning in her mind, which is why what comes out of her mouth surprises him, “But if the hellhounds got to you, I still don’t get how your body is... not mush.”

Dean hesitates. She could really be hung up on this (being in a body that’s not your own must be freaky) (and this reminds him that Bela is using a _vessel_ right now) (somehow he cannot work up the energy to care), but she might also be fishing for information on angels. Which, the one angel he wants to protect aside, isn’t actually something he wants to hinder her in. “It got rebuild.”

“What? _How_?”

“By the angel. I can’t get any closer to a how, even if I wanted to. But I’ve seen angels heal. It’s just light, and re-knitting and good as new. So something like that, I assume.”

“Angels, huh?”

“I hear you,” Dean’s mutter makes Bela’s gaze sharpen again. Dean ignores it, “Are you going to eat that?” He points at her untouched pie and she actually rolls her eyes.

Pushing the plate towards him, she starts hesitantly, “Tell me about them? I assume running into an angel would be... bad. For us.”

Dean starts demolishing the pie, “You assume right. When we first tried figuring out who or what dragged my ass back topside, I ran into a couple of demons. They were so _scared_ that they couldn’t even _say_ the word ‘angel’. Rightly so by the way, ‘cause next time I saw them they were all dead, eyes burned right out of their skulls.” Bela looks slightly ill. Possibly because Dean is eating without concern as he relays the story, “They can do that to humans, too. The eye-thing. You don’t want to see an angel in its true form, nor do you want to listen to their true voice. It’s a lot of bleeding and a high risk of spontaneous combustion all around. Both for humans and demons.”

Bela clicks her nails against the table top as Dean finishes his pie, “So, that sounds as though angels can’t move around very well on Earth.” It’s only almost a question, and Dean knows she’s already guessed this is not the case.

“Nah, no luck. Get themselves a vessel and they can technically interact just fine with humans. There’s a catch, though. Angels’ vessels need to consent. As opposed to the lovely young thing you’re wearing,” Dean lets his eyes sweep over Bela’s figure and she bristles.

“Actually, I made the girl a deal. I took care of a, ah, problem of hers, in return for the use of her body. Manipulating ouija boards is _fun_. You should have seen her face. Anyway, I might have forgotten to mention exactly how long I wanted to play tenant. But a deal’s a deal. At least I didn’t ask for her soul,” Bela shakes her head slightly, “though agreeing to let a demon possess her probably doesn’t look too good on her record.” Bela grins. Dean mirrors her expression.

Once upon a time he would have felt bad for the vessel. But it really is a long time ago. He doesn’t even remember when he and Sam stopped trying to exorcise demons and choose to just go straight for the kill. It was long, long before he became one himself.

“I said technically, though. Knowing you, you’d probably be perfectly able to spot an angel in a crowd. And not just because they’re arrogant sons of bitches. Even when they try to fit in, when they’re trying to play nice... Well, I think I can count the angels who properly know how to interact with humans on one hand.”

“So, they stand out? How? Little things? Big?”

“Both. A lot of things. You’re smart, you’re not going to be fooled. But let me give you an example, just because I know you’ll get a kick out of it.”

Bela smiles slightly, and Dean feels a little triumph at the curiosity in her eyes, “Little or big?”

“Big, definitely big. At least for me,” Dean grins again.

“Oh, something that happened to you. Let me guess, it’s to do with your miraculous resurrection?”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, “Very much.” It’s a logic conclusion, anyway. He hasn’t exactly elaborated on how big a part angels have played and are playing in his life nowadays. “The angel who brought me back and fixed me up apparently couldn’t stick around to be there when I woke up. So he left me where I was to wake up on my own.”

“Okay?” Dean can see Bela isn’t impressed. He smirks.

“Which was six feet under, and in my damn coffin,” Bela blinks. Dean rubs his jaw thoughtfully, “Wonder what the fuck would have happened if I’d choked to death before I managed to dig myself out.”

“Express route back down?” Bela’s voice is slightly off. Well, waking up in your own grave isn’t a nice thought (it’s an even worse experience, Dean can testify).

“Nah, I have it on good authority that I was never meant to go downstairs in the first place. Not back then, at least. More like an express route upstairs,” Dean stops abruptly and curses under his breath, “Come to think of it that might just have been the point. Halle-fucking-lujah.”

“Why?”

“That’s another _long_ story. Look up the apocalypse sometime.”

“The apocalypse?” Bela snorts, “Sorry, I don’t put much stock in the Bible.”

“You shouldn’t, apparently it gets a shitload of stuff wrong. But I’m telling you angels exist, and you seem to be willing to at least entertain the possibility that it’s true.”

“What can I say? I take your pretty face as confirmation.”

Dean lets out a barking laugh. It draws the attention of the waitress, “So, I’m done and I’ve got places to be. Didn’t you have a deal to settle anyway?” He stands and drops a couple of bills on the table, before picking up the bag with the grigery.

Bela joins him. “About that...” she trails off and they make their way outside.

Once outsides, Dean pauses in the parking lot. There’s a tingle down his spine. He looks over his shoulder just in time to see how Bela’s eyes dart to the bag. What the actual fuck? “Bela?” his voice is cautious and just a little dangerous. Bela looks up quickly, obviously startled. Dean was right; she was considering making a grab for the bag and dart of with it. He growls.

The worst thing is, she might actually have succeeded. If she’d gotten her hands on the talisman and poofed with it, he couldn’t have followed her. Wouldn’t have. And not because he couldn’t track her. Baaras-charm aside, he thinks he would be able to. She’s spent too long with him. He’s got quite a good lock on her now.

“Do you know how long I’ve had my eyes on that thing?” she gestures at the bag with a resigned expression.

“What?”

“Since the exhibition opened pretty much. Tried to go in after it a couple of times, but each time... Do you have any idea of how humiliating it is to be bested by a common ghost? Repeatedly?” Dean can’t help it; he chuckles at her evident frustration, “And then you just waltz in and pick it up,” she huffs angrily.

“Suppose that’s the difference, dear. The grigery was never my aim. I just wanted to gank something. Ghost seemed as good a thing as any.”

Bela hisses softly, “So you don’t even want it. You probably haven’t got a use for it, either! Why don’t you give it to me?”

“And what the hell do you want with it? What’re you going to use it for?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“If you want me to hand it over, it is. I don’t even know if it’s a lucky charm or a cursed object. I was thinking to hand it over to Sam for him to geek out over.”

There’s a very subtle change in Bela’s expression, “So Sam’s still with you?”

“You sound surprised,” Dean doesn’t even notice the sudden frost bite in his voice.

Bela raises her hands, “You didn’t mention him. I figured I’d better not ask, just in case...”

That actually throws Dean a little. A considerate demon. It’s becoming so common that it’s not even fun. Really, he wishes he knew if it’s the fast-lane career-woman or the crossroads dealer speaking.

“What do you need it for?” he asks after a while, mostly in lack of something better to say.

Bela sighs, looks away. He can almost see as she changes her tactic, though. She meets his eyes again. It’s pitch dark out, but it doesn’t bother either of them, he figures. “I’ve got a deal set up. Human buyer. He wants it by the end of the week.”

Dean purses his lips, “What does a demon need money for? Having cash is nice, I get that, but... You sound like you _need_ this...”

Bela’s hand flails a little, “It’s not the cash, it’s the deal.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” except, as the words leave Dean’s mouth, he realises that maybe it does. Bela’s next words goes toward confirming his suspicions.

“You know what, if you don’t want to give it to me, perhaps you’d trade me. We could make a deal?”

“You need it, right?”

“So you keep saying,” Bela taps her foot impatiently.

“No, not that. The _deals_. You need them like...” She needs them like Dean needs to kill. He’s almost sure. But, “Why this? Why try to make a deal with me for the talisman? Why pass it off through another? Why not make deals for souls?”

Bela looks down, “Would you?”

“What?”

“Make deals for some desperate bastards? For their souls? Knowing what exactly that price entails?”

Dean understands what she is saying. And he knows where she is coming from. But he also knows he _could_ , “Damn Bela, I think you messed up your becoming a demon.”

Somehow his comment seems to startle her, “What do you mean?”

“I’m quite sure you should be able to turn that off. Your conscience or whatever. Hell, your _compassion_.”

She sighs, “No, I’m quite sure I am. Able to turn it off. Most of the time I just rather would not?”

Dean shakes his head at her, “I’m going to go out on a limb here, and guess that’s a pretty dangerous frame of mind for a demon. There’s nothing out there that wouldn’t want to kill you now.”

“Well, you haven’t made a move on me yet.”

Dean pauses, “No, I haven’t.”

Bela stares at him for a long moment, “For what it’s worth, I’m quite sure it’s a luck charm. And a rather ineffective one at that.”

Dean holds the bag out to her. She looks at him disbelievingly, but eventually reaches out for it. He pulls it back at the last moment, “Ah, ah.”

Bela’s eyes flash red in annoyance. Dean lets his own sight shift, and with her nature unguarded, he can suddenly see her a lot clearer. He believes her. She probably could switch her compassion all the way off if she wanted. The corruption and the thorns are definitely there. It seems to be smoothed over in a conscious decision. His contemplation is cut short by Bela’s startled gasp as she stumbles backwards. Dean slides his sight back and conceals his own nature again. Bela stops.

“Dean Winchester,” she says, very quietly, “What are you?”

Dean smiles, and not very harshly, “Right now, a man prepared to do a deal with you. You have something I want.”

He doesn’t know exactly when the idea occurred to him, but maybe around the point where he realised that Bela didn’t have to care and that that holds true for him, too. He sifts through his emotions and dials them down a little. It’s ridiculous, actually. What he’s going to do, he’ll do because he cares. Only, he can’t do it if he actually lets himself care about it.

“What is it?” Bela is attentive again, as though he is a pusher offering her her preferred drug. He assumes the analogy is apt. At least he knows where the idea comes form.

“Hang on,” Dean walks the few feet over to the Impala, taking the talisman with him. Bela stays where she is.

He pops the lid to the trunk and is happy it shields him from view as he opens the hidden compartment. He finds what he’s looking for almost immediately, and he cannot help but wonder when blood ampoules became a part of the standard equipment in the car. (Sam had been driving his pick-up after all!) He pulls out a glass vial and shuts the trunk.

“You know,” Bela says, looking curiously to see what he’s holding, “I’d hoped you’d just leave the grigery in the car. I’d have broken in and stolen it, and you’d never have seen me. I kept wondering why your car wasn’t warded against demons, though. Guess I know now,” she grins a little as he finally makes his way back over.

Dean holds out his hand to show her the syringe, “I want some of your blood.”

Bela stares at the needle, “What for?”

“Not part of the deal.” She looks up and meets his eyes. Dean keeps his voice steady, “one ampoule and I’ll watch you draw it. Then the talisman is yours. We go our separate ways, end of story.”

Bela takes the glass implement, “How do I know you’re not going to use it against me somehow?”

“You’ll just have to trust me. Or, barring that, trust that I have nothing to actually gain from harming you right now. Whereas an ally... Everybody can always use allies.”

This seems to be reassurance enough for Bela. She plunges the needle into her arm and slowly draws an ampoule full of blood. She hands it to Dean who passes the paper bag with the talisman over and turns his back unconcernedly. He puts the blood in the cooler currently sitting in the back seat. His control slips for a fragment of a second, and he wonders what the fuck he is doing, procuring demon blood for his little brother. Then he forces the errant thought back. Sam needs it. Better to get it this way than to have Sammy go looking for his own.

Besides, Sam’s done a great job trying to look for a way to help Cas. (And if Dean doesn’t have any grace to take back with him, at least he doesn’t come empty-handed.)

He turns to face Bela again. She’s standing next to her own car. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Bye, Bela. Keep your head down.”

Bela winks at him, and gets in her car. He waits till he cannot see her tail lights any longer before folding himself into the front seat of the Impala. Then he resumes the drive home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: 13th of March
> 
> (Don't worry, you'll get something on the 5th as well - namely a time stamp covering the hunt. It will be posted as part 3 of the series.)


	6. The Joy of Giving

 

Dean heads for the library as soon as he is back. He takes both his duffel and the cooler with him; he can put everything away after, he supposes. Also, any bad conscience successfully strangled, he is actually kind of excited to see Sam’s reaction to the little gift he’s brought him.

Sam is sitting in the exact same spot as Dean left him in. Since it’s been three days, Dean assumes that he _has_ moved, though. The table in front of him gives it away, anyway. Instead of being stacked with old dusty files, unruly piles of index cards are now covering half the surface. Sam seems to be going through them methodically, if not quite as neatly as he is wont to do. Dean feels good about his little gift.

“I’m sure the Men of Letters were brilliant and everything, but they would really, really have benefited from a little more systematic thinking. Or a secretary, or something,” frustration is bleeding into Sam’s voice and he doesn’t even look up.

“Well, hello to you too,” Dean dumps his luggage and takes a seat opposite from Sam. He had meant to surprise his brother, had been real sneaky on his way in too, but he supposes that those days are over. Even if Sam’s bitching about the quality of the preserved demon blood he’s been drinking in lieu of something better, he’s still hopped up high enough on the good stuff that he’s probably been able to sense Dean since before he parked the car.

“Sorry,” Sam scrubs a hand over his eyes, then runs it through his hair, looking up, “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Which I suppose is an upgrade, though, since I actually know _which_ haystack and that there _is_ a needle. But still. Damn big haystack.”

“Oo-kay, Sammy. I think you need a break,” Dean can’t help but grin a little. Sam huffs. “No, seriously. Put that down and come with me to the kitchen. I’ll fix us something to eat and you can tell me what you’ve got so far,” Sam looks as though he’s about to protest so, “No protests. Get your ass in gear.”

Sam gets up reluctantly. Dean takes the cooler with him. Sam doesn’t even give it a second glance.

Sam takes a seat by the kitchen table as Dean sets out to make hamburgers. He even gets out some salad to chop up for Sam. (If he has to make a conscious effort to not think about how much he actually enjoys that particular action, well. He will.) The kitchen begins to smell like cooking, and Dean doesn’t much care that he has eaten a couple of hours ago. He doesn’t really get hungry any more, but he also doesn’t get bloated. He makes two patties for each of them.

“So, you said you’d found something?” he asks, flipping the meat.

“Yes. I found the file where I first read about that divine power-thing. And rereading it now, I’m absolutely convinced that it _is_ talking about grace.”

Dean throws a look over his shoulder without bothering to stop his chopping. That actually seems to amuse Sam. “Well?”

“You know I can’t actually drink your blood, right? Please don’t marinate my salad in it.”

Dean snorts but turns back, “Why is that, do you think? Aren’t you just being squeamish?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. The smell is wrong. Like my entire body is warning me, ‘no, don’t go there, you’ll get sick’.”

“‘Cause I’m a Knight?” Dean doesn’t mean to say it, it just slips out. He doesn’t want Sam pondering too much on it, not when he’s taking the whole demon thing so nicely. (Though, Dean supposes, Sam’s got nothing on him there. He’s dealing with the blood drinking pretty fucking stellar, after all. They should be even.)

“Maybe. But...” the tone of Sam’s voice suggest that he is embarrassed, and Dean looks over again, to see if he can catch a blush. He doesn’t, but the look on Sam’s face makes him stop his knife-work in favour of keeping eye contact. “It’s just, there’s _something_ about the smell. It’s not repelling, not really. I’m sort of... drawn to it?” Sam looks down, “It’s as though I’m aware that you’re family. Instinctively, but pretty bloody explicitly.”

“Huh,” Dean feels very eloquent.

“It’s not a bad thing, I don’t think.”

“Nah,” Dean turns back to the chopping board, “It’s not even really a new thing, is it? We’re kinda hung up on that whole family-thing. Can’t exactly seem to let that go. Though the being able to _smell_ the connection is new,” the grin that’s snuck onto his face is audible in the latter part of his comment.

Sam laughs, “Yeah, just when we thought it couldn’t get any more creepy.”

Their close bond is not creepy. Kinda. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam snorts back.

“Anyway, so, grace?” Dean tries to get the conversation back on track as he flips the patties again. They smell really, really good.

“Yeah, right. Remember how I was confused about that whole harvest-thing? Thinking that maybe this guy had _grown_ grace or something?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I was wrong. There were some, ah, descriptions. The harvesting is probably a pretty good picture – think scythe – but he took it directly from an angel.” Dean shudders at that mental image. Demon or no, that doesn’t sound nice. “He wasn’t exactly popular for it, either. He killed this creature, and get this, I don’t think they knew it was an angel, and somehow the rest of the Men would rather have preferred to study it.”

Dean spares Sam another glance, placing the salad on the table, “Study it?”

“Yeah. Nothing to do with them wanting to protect the angel. All non-humans are monsters in the Men of Letters’ view,” neither of them comment on that, “Anyway, I’m guessing that that’s why this guy hid the grace. And I’m beginning to think he might not even have catalogued it. But I’m working on that. I did find some logs from a more or less scientific dairy, which is where I know most of this stuff from. And if they’re good... I’m quite sure the grace was never used for anything. It should still be here. Only problem is if it, I dunno, has gone bad or something in the last century and a half. I don’t know if it does that. But we can probably ask Cas.”

“Ask me what?”

Dean spins from the stove, a grin already spreading on his face, “Hi Cas.”

Castiel accommodates him beautifully, “Hello Dean.” Dean’s grin widen.

“What are you doing up?” Sam’s voice is soft, pleased. He’s not telling Cas off for being up and about, and Dean realises that Sam probably hasn’t had too much company these last few days.

Castiel sits down gingerly, “I smelled food.”

Dean looks back at him, from turning off the stove. Castiel meets his eyes, and Dean can feel the approving expression settle over his own face. Cas gives one of his not-quite-there smiles.

Dean sets out plates for all of them, and dumps a hamburger on Sam’s and Cas’.

“Are you not eating?” Cas asks.

“In a moment. I want to ask you this first.” Actually, Dean wants to see if Cas can eat more than one patty. If he can, Dean’ll give him his second as well. After all, he did just eat. _And_ he doesn’t actually need food. “So, Sam says he’s pretty sure the grace he read about is still here. Is it still going to be good? This file is like a 140, 150 years old?”

Cas is eating under Dean’s scrutiny. Dean’s quite sure the angel is mostly doing it to please him. “Even if the passage of time did have an effect on grace,” he says between to mouthfuls, “just over a century is a very insignificant amount of time.”

Dean snorts, “Most humans don’t even live a century, Cas. Sounds like long enough to me.”

“You’re not human, though.” Cas continues to eat unperturbedly. Across from the table Sam’s frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth. Dean gets him.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Sam asks, “Any more? At first it was...”

Cas looks up as Sam trails off. He gives a little shrug which seems slightly stilted, “There are many things which bother me. Dean is one of them more often than not.”

Dean tries to choke his laugh and it comes out as a snort, “Sorry, man. Can’t help my winning personality.”

Castiel looks over at him, “No. Though Heaven knows I’ve tried,” he smiles slightly, and Dean laughs again. “So, am I to take it that you are looking for this grace?” Cas looks between them.

“Of course, Cas,” Sam says. “I mostly have an idea of what _level_ of the archives it should be in. But I’m contemplating whether it would be faster to just look through everything manually, or to keep going through the index. It’s not complete. Not even for the stuff that the Men of Letters weren’t actively trying to hide from each other.”

“I wish I could be of more assistance.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean pats Cas’ shoulder, before he gets up to get the other hamburgers. Based on how quickly both Sam and Cas finished their first ones, he gives them both another.

“No, Dean, you don’t understand. I _should_ be able to. Had I been stronger, I would be able to sense the grace, even if it is contained. At least if I could get close enough, and the right level of the archives _would_ have been sufficient. Now, though, I could probably walk into the room without being any the wiser,” and after a half-beat, “Now there’s none left for you.”

It takes Dean a few seconds to catch up, “It’s fine, man. I ate on my way back, anyway.”

Castiel nods and starts on his second hamburger. It pleases Dean enough to see him eat that he doesn’t think he would have let Cas know even if he had been starving. Dean sort of hopes Cas doesn’t realise.

“What do you think, Dean?” Sam points his fork at him, and Dean raises a brow.

“I think your manners are rusty, Sammy,” he nods at the fork and Sam lowers it. Dean continues before he can say anything, though, “I think you should keep looking through the catalogue, just in case. I can start looking through the physical archives. That way, when your pursuit eventually proves futile,” he grins mockingly at Sam, “I’ll already have made some headway!”

Sam groans long and loudly, “I’m so tired of this.”

“It does seem a daunting task,” Castiel pauses in his eating and looks down.

“No, Cas, I didn’t mean to complain,” Sam is quick to backtrack, “We’ll do anything necessary to help you. You know that.” Dean nods his assent as the angel looks up.

“And I suppose this is necessary?” Castiel is looking Dean straight in the eye.

“No,” it’s not like Dean doesn’t know what he’s really asking, “I didn’t run into anyone while I was out.”

Sam lets out a loud breath, “Dean was taking care of a ghost, Cas. He wasn’t hunting down angels.”

“I am well aware of that, Sam. But don’t tell me he wouldn’t have availed himself of the opportunity, had it arisen. We both know your brother better than that.”

Sam doesn’t seem to be able to refute that statement. “It didn’t,” Dean tells them both, “Are you both done eating?” he gets two slightly confused nods in return, “Something else came up, though, something which’ll probably make your life a little more enjoyable.” Dean meets Sam’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” Sam tilts his head ever so slightly.

Dean takes a deep breath and reminds himself to only feel the good side of what giving his brother demon blood means. Then he pulls out the ampoule from the cooler, “I got the impression that it’s better fresh,” he reaches over the table and places the glass vial in front of Sam.

For a moment there is complete silence. Dean isn’t actually sure who’s more startled, his blood-addicted brother or the deteriorating angel. But Sam needs it. He needs it not to be cranky, and he needs it not to feel crappy. But he also needs it because his powers are waning; Dean can tell. The refrigerated blood he’s been using up until now has held the abstinence symptoms at bay, but it has done little else. And there’s a demon in the bunker now.

The worry is a constant for Dean. He cannot shake the looming threat that he might snap and endanger Sam. Castiel, too, as it is right now. Never mind that he doesn’t feel like he’s about to snap: hasn’t in all the time he’s been back. (And that’s fucked up, Dean’ll be the first to admit it. How is it that he has fewer anger management issues now, than he had as a human?)

“Thank you?” Sam tentatively breaks the silence.

Dean shrugs, “You need it. Your whining on the phone made that pretty clear. Also, I can tell.” Dean wants to let his sight slide to get a closer look, but he refrains in consideration of the angel sitting next to him. Being very quiet.

Dean hazards a glance at his friend. Castiel seems to be trying to set the table on fire with his stare.

“I’ll get the plates,” Dean says, trying to prevent the uncomfortable silence from settling again.

Castiel shakes himself out of his stupor, “Thank you Dean. Dinner was delicious.”

Dean actually stops on his way to the sink to look at him, “That’s it?”

“Uhm, I liked it?” Castiel seems tentative and Dean shakes his head fondly.

“You seemed like you were about to have a heart attack over the blood there. You’re not even going to comment on it?” Dean’s a glutton for punishment.

“I am nowhere near so weak as to allow my vessel’s heart to fail, Dean.”

Sam snorts, “I’d say that is a ‘no’.” Dean shakes his head and continues to the sink.

“Do you want my assistance in looking through the archives?”

Hands now free of plates, Dean turns back to look at Cas, “Nah, man, that’s okay. You should probably go back to bed. You don’t look too hot.”

Sam almost manages to choke his snort. Dean shoots him a glare. Castiel is oblivious to the exchange.

“Okay,” he stands, “Dean, thank you.”

Dean feels as though the angel means for those word to apply to a lot more than sending him back to bed. He really hopes that Castiel’s faith isn’t misplaced. Nothing like a little pressure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: 19th of March


	7. Dead Man's Chest

 

Dean’s on his third room, and he is already getting frustrated. The fact that this room is maybe three times the size of the first two doesn’t help. In all fairness those were just glorified broom closets, but still. He’s been at it for almost six hours. Its gone from being late to being early: it’s around 5 am. Not that it matters much. There aren’t exactly any windows in the bunker, and he doesn’t exactly need sleep. He could do this indefinitely. Doesn’t make it any less boring, though.

About halfway through the second room, he figured, that he should probably catalogue the stuff he handled. He has been looking at anything short of papers anyway, not actually sure what he is looking for. The index cards originally made by the Men of Letters are insufficient, at best. But he figured, since he was already halfway through, that he would wait till the next room.

By the time he started on this room, he had of course forgotten.

Dean curses, two bookcases in. But he still doesn’t retrieve the cards. Some of the stuff here, he knows what is, recognises from his years and years as a hunter. Other stuff, more alarmingly, he’s just able to _tell_. Like the beautiful gemlike stone in its velvet-lined ornate box in the first room. It was set in a thin golden chain, and Dean just knows that it can slowly suck the youth and vitality out of whoever wears it. He also knows that is designed to be able to release that power again. If he knew how to activate it, he’d have a nice store of instant-youth on hand. But that part he, of course, cannot tell.

In the second room there was a little flask of bottled light that had made him hopeful. But even before his fingers had touched the glass, his instincts had warned him. Temptation and deceit had rolled out on each ray of the light, and after a few minutes he’d been able to make out the writing on it’s label. Light of a will-o-wisp. Great. (How do you even bottle that?)

About half of the items have labels. About half of those are legible, the rest either too faded or too messy to make any sense. Actually, some of those he can read doesn’t make sense either. _Hair, ellepige_. _Chains, tatari-mokke_. Those last ones actually made him stumble in his haste to get away from them. And he still has no idea what they are.

There’s a box on the shelf in front of him now, which gives him pause too. There’s no label on this, but he recognises at least half of the protective symbols scratched into the iron. He doesn’t feel anything from it, though, neither dark or light energy (for lack of a better division). Actually, Dean ponders, still studying the box, that dichotomy doesn’t really work. It’s more like black, a shitload of different shades of grey and, he hopes eventually, pure white. But he doesn’t actually know if grace is going to register like that. Angels are warriors after all, and by extension killers. It might affect his senses. So Dean is looking into everything that falls even remotely within the lighter half of the scale.

This, however, doesn’t register at all. Which means it could be what he’s looking for, or he could accidentally (re)start Armageddon if he opens it. Dean lets his sight slide, but the box is solid. He didn’t actually expect anything else, not as long as he can’t sense anything at all.

There’s not really too many options left. Well, Dean thinks with a wry smile, at least he has some experience dealing with the worst case scenario. He opens the box.

The world doesn’t end. Dean gets intimately acquainted with the wall behind him, though. “Sonuvabitch,” he mutters, pushing himself into a sitting position.

There’s an ear-wrecking screeching going on, and something seems to be flying around the room. Whatever was in that box, it is alive. The next moment Dean feels something sharp pierce his thigh. The pain is immediately followed by a similar stinging in his arm, in his shoulder, in his chest. Something slices over his neck. Dean finally manages to duck for cover behind an old, solid wooden chest.

Lodged several places in his body are what he can only describe as feathers. Wickedly sharp, blade-like feathers. Dean pulls them out. Blood is rushing down his neck, and he’s quite sure both that cut and the feather that’s nicked the main artery in his leg would have been potentially fatal. “What the _fuck_?,” his sight slides.

He can track the bird now, though it still flies at a breakneck speed, throwing dagger-like feathers left and right. The majority of them lodges in the chest Dean’s hiding behind, but so far the stupid creature isn’t circling wide enough to actually get it’s missiles behind his cover.

The life force of the thing baffles him. It still has traces of being dormant in it, but it is slowly lighting back up. And it’s old. It’s _ancient_. Cas could probably tell him what it is.

Dean raises his head a little further, trying to decide what to do now. At least he closed the door after him. And even if the bird is screeching like it’s the end of the world, Sam won’t be able to hear it from his room and come running. At least Dean hopes so.

Leaving his shelter even partially is a mistake. Only his quick reflexes, honed through years of hunting and further aided by his demon-sight, lets him dodge the next missile. That one was headed for his eye. “Enough,” he growls.

He’s already stopped bleeding, skin healed over, and he has no problem charging the bird. It’s fast, but not fast enough. Dean gets his hands on it, one arm wrapped around its body, the other hand closed firmly around its swan-like neck. The bird’s screeches grow louder as it trashes.

“Shut up, hell-bird,” Dean hisses at the wriggling bundle of sharp feathers in his arms. The bird twists its neck and bites him. It actually takes a chunk of meat out of his arm, and Dean is momentarily stunned, not even aware of the pain. Then the bird swallows.

That’s too much for him.

Dean snaps the thing’s neck and tears of its head in one swift movement. Its body jerks a few times, then goes still. Dean just sort of stares at it. Then he dumps it back in its box.

He figures the thing was in the box for a reason. It cannot possibly be that easy to kill. They’ve stored salt in practically every room of the bunker, and this one is no exception. He salts the bird, and breaks open his lighter to pour the fluid over it. That’ll have to do. The second lighter comes from the same cupboard as the salt, and he lights up the demented chicken.

Only as he watches the bird turn to ashes (pretty fucking quickly, actually), does he let his eyes slide back. The flesh on his arm is already regrown, the scratches on his torso from the bird’s plumage a distant memory. But his t-shirt is torn, and there’s blood seeped into his plaid.

“Mad. Stark, raving mad.” Who the fuck boxes up a creature like that and doesn’t even leave a fucking _note_?

As the flames die out, Dean shuts and seals the box again. Decapitation and salting and burning can kill a lot of things, but he’d rather not have this particular bird flying free. Then he makes a label for the bloody box. _Bird-creature. Metallic, cutting plumage. Ranged attacks. Flesh-eating. Probably (hopefully) dead, but... open with care. Or, you know,_ don’t _open._

A while after Dean’s put the box back in its place, he just stands staring. If he’d been human, been down here alone, looking for something to help Cas, because he’s better at this than trawling through files... It would be a perfectly plausible situation. It’s basically the same reason why he’s here now. He wouldn’t have done anything different as a human. And he’d be dead now.

Dean looks at his torn, bloody clothes. Then with a shrug he resumes his search.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s almost 9 am by the time he is halfway through the room. He’s considered going to get some breakfast a couple of times, but that would mean having to change clothes too, and probably take a shower, altogether more time than he wants to spend.

Something is nagging at him, like a sixth sense that tells him to move on, to keep going. He doesn’t know if it is a demonic ability, or if it is simply his own personality that demands he work himself to exhaustion to try and help his friend. Considering how little prone he is to exhaustion now, Dean’s going to be working a damn long time.

 

* * *

 

 

By midday he is all but finished with the room. There are only three containers left he hasn’t looked in yet. The only thing they have in common is how anonymous they are. Anonymous, as in impenetrable – the same way as the box with that bloody bird.

Dean’s saved them for last, just in case everything goes as spectacularly wrong this time around. He came across the first two items more than two hours ago, and the last maybe 45 minutes later. But even now, he still hesitates.

There’s another metal box. That was the first one he saw. It’s smaller than the one containing the bird, though, perhaps a foot cubed. The second is a glazed ceramic bottle, that might just have contained alcohol in another life. Or vinegar. Oil, maybe. Dean shakes his head. The last of the containers he found is an oblong, wooden jewellery box adorned with shells. Each of the shells have something carved into it. Dean thinks they’re protective sigils. Warding off demons, he would have guessed, except he doesn’t feel terribly repelled by it. He hasn’t touched it yet, though.

Dean hesitates a little longer. He picks up all the feathers and places them next the the bird’s box. They’re soft now, and he figures he should probably make a note about this somewhere. With a sigh, he admits he is just trying to procrastinate.

He doesn’t have the time for this. (Castiel doesn’t have the time for this.)

He decides to go through the containers in reverse order. The box with the shells is first. It’s unlabeled, of course, but the instant Dean moves it from the shelf, he knows this can’t be what he’s looking for. He was right about the sigils. Every place they touch him, they burn his skin, thin delicate lines of cold fire.

Dean is too curious – he has to see if the box contains anything, or if it is stored here in its own capacity.

Inside is a thin, dark dagger. The blade seems to be made from obsidian rather than metal. And now that it is no longer encased by the sigils, Dean can sense it just fine. It thrums with a low level of demonic energy, which reminds him of Ruby’s knife. If not for the fact that the blade looks too delicate to hold up in a fight, he would guess that this is a weapon effective against demons.

He picks it up. The power resonates gently with him. Dean grins a little. This find is a nice alternative to the psychotic monster bird. But apparently, Dean doesn’t deal well with nice. He tests the blade on his own arm, just a shallow cut, and then hisses out loud at the burn – hot this time, scorching even, to the sigils’ icy flames.

Handling the knife, Dean can admire how the light reflects in the blade. There’s an inscription there, something which looks distinctly like the writing on Ruby’s knife.

“Ha, got it in one,” Dean weighs the blade in his hand, “Knew their stuff, the Kurds. Ceremonial, I suppose.” It takes a few moments before Dean starts to feel silly for speaking with himself.

The knife goes back on the shelf, but not in the box. He’ll take it to his room, later. He would stick it in his pants if not for two reasons. One, the blade is so fine that he’s actually afraid of accidentally snapping it, and two, the cut on his arm is still bleeding sluggishly, although he can tell it is healing up, ever so slowly. He’d rather not have an accident with this particular knife down the back of his jeans.

The next container is the glazed bottle. It’s dark, even under the green glaze, and it seems to be sealed with some sort of black wax. Dean fishes his own knife out of its ankle strap, and carefully peels the sealing away.

Then he pops the cap.

It’s the second time Dean goes down, and this time he goes down howling. He collapses to his knees, then tumbles on his side, but through it all, he still manages to hold onto both the bottle and the stopper. He caps the flask again the instant before his head hit the floor.

The world is spinning.

His eyes are bleeding.

_He found it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you identidy the bird?
> 
> Last chapter due: 27th of March


	8. Light Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of this part. Look for _Saint and Sinner_ , the next part of the series, in mid/late April.
> 
> For [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexHamato/pseuds/AlexHamato). Happy birthday!

 

Several hours later, Dean sneaks out of the basement. He really, really needs to make it to his room before he runs into anybody.

He has taken the bottle of grace with him, and usually he would run straight to Cas, triumphant in his find. A part of him still wants to. A bigger part of his brain is arguing that both the angel and Sam might be slightly upset to see him at the moment.

His t-shirt is still torn and his plaid even more bloody. Furthermore, he can feel long dried blood on his face now, like a macabre parody of tear tracks. He has trouble focusing, and he is constantly battling the urge to close his eyes, to squeeze them shut so as never to let any light in again.

Normally he would be able to navigate decently even like that, but any extra senses he’s obtained have been whacked over the metaphorical head. There’s a low-hum ringing resonating with his very being, comparable to how his ears used to ring if he turned the music up too (much too) loud. (It doesn’t seem he can get it too loud now. He’s tried.) But his hearing is fine. The grace in the bottle luckily came preset on mute.

Dean doesn’t usually put much stock in his luck, but he makes it to his room without running into the bunker’s other occupants and counts himself blessed. He finds some new clothes, quickly concluding that, no, it’s not just the t-shirt that’s torn and, yes, he might as well give up on the plaid in advance and just toss both sad rags. Or burn them. He probably ought to take precautions with his blood now.

Huh.

Dean washes the dried blood of his torso, arms and face. Who knew archiving could be so much fun? His eyes, though... Dean stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red, somewhere between I’ve been crying and someone hit me hard enough to actually bust my eye. Also, they don’t seem to be in any hurry to heal.

Dean loathes to think how his eyes looked for those first few hours when he was still lying on the archive floor, unable to force his lids open, let alone move. It probably wasn’t pretty.

Dean’s actually a bit surprised that the grace affected him that badly. Yes, he’s seen demons burned to cinders, eyes nothing but black holes, but those’ve always been the results of consciously used grace. And the whole argument about his being a Knight still stands. No common angel should be able to take him down.

Which makes him wonder. Exactly which angel (who?) did this grace come from? Is it bad, in spite of what Cas said to the contrary?

Deciding he isn’t going to look better anytime soon, Dean starts towards the library. He’s halfway there before he realises that his jeans are still bloody, nice new hole added at his upper thigh. Well, whatever.

It’s not like Sam and Cas are squeamish.

Except for the part where Sam sort of is. Dean finds both his brother and the angel in the sitting area. Castiel is facing away from the door, but Sam sees him the instant he appears.

“Dean. Please tell me you haven’t been in the archive all day? It’s almost midnight, that’s more than 24 hours! I mean, I know—” this is when Sam’s eyes catch on the blood on his jeans, “—oh my god, are you bleeding? How did that happen?” Sam sounds about equal parts worried and entertained.

Dean rolls his eyes. He sincerely hopes he’s standing far enough away that Sam doesn’t catch the pain that causes in his expression, “There was a box with a bird. And feathers. Blades. I don’t even know, man,” Dean sighs exaggeratedly.

Sam grins. He seems to be convinced that Dean’s fine, and he is. From the bird-attack, at least. Dean finally makes his way over to the couches and plops down, avoiding his brother’s eyes as he approaches. The bottled grace is a warm weight in his pocket.

“That file, Sammy,” Dean keeps his focus on his hands, but he can feel both his brother and Castiel turn to look at him. And he was just starting to consider if Castiel was asleep. “Was there anything on what angel the grace was taken from?”

Castiel stiffens infinitesimally. Dean can still see his legs, though, and it’s enough. Sam hums, “No, not that I recall. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“So you didn’t find anything?”

Dean ignores the question, chewing his lip, “You sure?”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam makes an effort to sound very put-upon. Castiel shifts slightly.

“Why do you think this is important, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t really think about it, he just looks up to meet the angel’s eyes as he speaks. Castiel sucks in a sharp breath. Then he starts coughing. Dean pats his back to help him through it, and as Cas looks back up, their faces are even closer.

“What happened to your _eyes_?” Cas still sounds a little choked.

“What?” Sam’s leaning over to see too, “ _Damn_.”

“Looks freaky, right?”

“Your bird-thing do that? And, wait, are there actually living monsters in our basement?”

Dean cannot help but grin at Sam. Castiel is still staring intently at him, and he can see the the angel’s baby blues less than a foot away from the corner of his eye, even as he looks at Sam.

“Yup. There’s one under your bed and in your closet too, Sammy!” Sam pokes his tongue out at Dean, and Dean laughs out loud, “No, seriously, we’ll have to talk about the bird. Maybe you can figure out what it is. Or maybe you can, Cas?” Dean turns back to look at his friend. Castiel, of course, does not move back and again they are left sitting rather closer than common decency should allow. It’s not a new thing, but it has barely happened at all as long as Dean’s been a demon.

“I’m not interested in the bird, and I’m sure Sam’s more than capable of taking care of any and all monsters in his room,” Dean grins, wanting to make a jab, but Castiel ploughs on, “What I am interested in is your eyes. I’ve been studying them for almost a minute now, and I cannot detect any healing. Why are your eyes not healing, Dean?” Castiel has a way of being intense.

“Hey, a minute isn’t that long,” Sam tries to intervene, “it looks bad, it’ll probably take a while.”

Castiel doesn’t look away from Dean, “That injury to your leg. How deep was that? How long did it take to heal?”

Dean let’s out a long sigh, “Through the artery,” he can feel Sam startle, but he ignores him in favour of letting Cas make his point, “and probably less than two minutes.”

“So why. Aren’t. Your eyes. Healing?”

Dean finally looks away and leans back. Then he takes a deep breath and fishes the bottle out of his pocket, placing it on the table between them.

With the sealing broken, Dean can just about sense the cold burning emanating from inside the ceramic. He’s stoppered it best he could though, and it is very faint. Neither Sam nor Castiel reacts.

“Tell me something, Cas?” Castiel growls and Dean raises his hands in surrender, “I’m getting to it, just humour me first?” this earns him a nod, “When grace is taken from an angel, do we talk sort of healing light-show, or true form, burn your eyes out-light?”

“Two kinds of grace, Dean. Our powers and the part which is actually _us_. It’s only the powers that are removed, so it would create no harsher light than that which you see when I heal or,” Castiel almost doesn’t falter, “ banish demons.”

“Can you think of any exception?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where the mojo part would light up like a nuclear bomb?”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts before Castiel can answer, “what are you getting at?”

“I think we might have a problem. Answer the question, Cas?”

“And you’ll answer mine?” the angel mutters under his breath, but shakes his head and continues on a normal level, “It is possible, I suppose. If the angel from whom the ‘mojo’ was taken was injured by the procedure.”

It’s Sam who says what they’re all thinking, “Like if a human, a Man of Letters, tried _harvesting_ the grace?” He takes a deep breath, “Dean?”

Dean looks Castiel in the eyes, “My eyes? Might have burned them a bit. With grace. About ten hours ago?”

Dean has a split-second to watch the different emotions filter through Castiel’s eyes. He braces himself for a well-deserved berating for not opening this conversation with the fact that he’s found the grace.

“ _Ten hours_?” Castiel says.

Dean gapes. Sam picks up the bottle gingerly, “Is this it, Dean? The grace?” Dean nods absently, “That’s amazing! Oh my god, Dean, you did it! Cas, this is great! ...Cas?” Sam finally seems to realise how little attention the angel is paying the grace. Dean’s been aware for a while, but he feels just as confused about it as Sam sounds.

“Ten hours?” Castiel growls again, lower this time and Dean would probably have fear running down his spine, if the space wasn’t already taken up by an entirely different kind of tingles. “You got hurt _ten hours ago_ and you didn’t think to come find us when you didn’t _heal_?”

“But I am healing,” Dean realises that this is the wrong thing to say exactly a fragment of a second too late.

“And how bad was it at first?” Castiel’s voice is perfectly calm. Sam is watching them as though they’re engaged in a tense tennis match, bottle of grace still clutched tightly.

For a while Dean watches Castiel. But he still sort of wants to keep his eyes closed. He sighs, “I thought it was worse at first than it was. Unless my healing actually worked properly then. Anyway, I don’t know. Took me a couple of hours before I was able to open my eyes. Couple more before I could actually see.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam gets there first, though Castiel seems to second his exhalation.

“‘Is why I asked about the burning-thing. This gonna hurt you, Cas?”

For a short moment Cas’ lips go very tight. Then he shakes himself out of it, and finally, finally looks at the bottle of grace. Sam offers it to him. Dean feels an instant of scorching resentment; he found the grace, he ought to be the one to give it to Cas! Castiel makes an aborted movement, but doesn’t reach for the bottle. Sam puts is back on the table.

“It will... _affect_ the grace.”

“This not gonna be enough to juice you up?”

“Yes, Dean, it will be sufficient. But if there’re parts of another angel’s being mixed up with the grace, the process will be... uncomfortable.”

“Anything we can do to help?” Dean cannot help leaning a little forwards in his eagerness.

Castiel’s eyes dart up to meet his quickly. He looks back down as he answers. “No. In fact I think you ought to keep your distance. Both of you. I don’t know how much true light is bound up in the grace. I can withstand it. You cannot endure it.” Castiel looks shortly between the both of them.

Sam nods and stands, “Okay. Where d’you want to do this? We can go, if you want...” he trails off. Dean remains stubbornly sitting on the couch.

“No, Sam, thank you. I think I should go to my room. The door will provide ample protection from the light, and if it leaves a residue or after-effect, it will not be in any place where it can bother you.”

Castiel isn’t getting up either, though. He also still hasn’t taken the bottle from the table. “D’you need help?” Dean hears himself ask. “To get to your room, I mean?”

“I,” Castiel hesitates, “Yes. Thank you.” He gets to his feet on his own, but makes no move to do anything more.

Dean gets up. After a while he leans over the table and scoops up the bottle. “Come on, man,” Dean takes Castiel by the elbow and steers him gently out of the room. The angel seems mostly steady on his feet. Sam watches them go in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s pacing a hole in his floor. Castiel sent him away with clear instructions to go to his room and leave him the fuck alone while he did his thing (though the angel used far more angelic phrasing).

But Dean has absolutely no idea how long this is supposed to take or what exactly is going to happen. And it frustrates him, even if it’s been less than fifteen minutes.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean stops in front of his door, considering. Then he rips it open and makes his way to the angel’s room.

He knocks. Impatient as he is, he really doesn’t want another face full of an angel’s true form. Or bits and pieces of said true form. Ew. “Cas, come on, man? Let me know if it worked?” There’s no answer from the room, no sound at all.

Suddenly Dean remembers with cutting clarity that he actually told Castiel he would let him leave once he was okay. It takes Dean a moment longer to remember that Cas told him that this wouldn’t restore his wings. The angel must still be there.

“I’m coming in, Cas,” Dean is cautious as he opens the door, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. When his skin doesn’t immediately start blistering he opens them slowly.

Castiel is sitting on the bed, head bowed, hands folded loosely around the empty bottle in his hands. Dean can’t so much tell that the container is empty, as he is aware of how different his friend is now.

Castiel radiates power and, if not quite health, then at least strength. And there is something about his presence now, a thousand times stronger than what Dean could feel before – something which is screaming _angel_. There’s also something else, underlying that, at least as strong and harsh, but at the same time (sweetly) (painfully) (intoxicatingly) familiar. Something which is Cas first and celestial being of pure bamf second.

Then Castiel looks up. His eyes lock on Dean’s as they always do, and the angel lets out a long rattling breath.

“Oh,” Cas’ voice is very small and for a moment Dean worries that something is wrong with his friend. But the angel is looking at Dean, and that is what seems to have prompted the small, broken sound. Dean’s frozen in place.

“I can see your soul clearly again.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath, “Don’t look too closely?” His words are dripping with self-deprecation and he cannot stop the arm that folds over his chest, as though it could shield the torn monstrosity hiding in there.

“No, Dean. It’s...” Castiel makes a choked sound deep in his throat and looks away. He flexes his fingers nervously around the bottle until it breaks with a sharp crack. Then he just stares at the broken pieces of ceramics in his hand.

Dean approaches very slowly. He reaches out to take the shards from the angel, careful not to touch him. He can feel the air hum with power.

“I didn’t mean to break it.”

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Dean steps back, still moving slowly, though if he were to startle Cas now, at least the angel seems to be in a much better shape than before.

“I can fix it?”

“Not important.” Dean dumps the pieces in the metal bin. Castiel flinches slightly. Dean thinks that’s very human of him. Then he realises how fucked up that is.

“Your souls not broken, Dean,” Castiel is meeting his eyes again now, and the intensity unnerves Dean in the way it always has (nothing more, nothing less).

“Nah, I know man. Just black and twisted,” he shrugs, trying for a cocky smile.

“No, Dean. It’s... I’ve never seen anything like it,” Cas pauses, tilts his head, “It’s twisted and thorny, and exactly what I would expect from a demon soul, except...”

“Except?” Dean prompts. He cannot see how this can possibly go anywhere good, but now he has to know.

“There are flashes of light. Your soul still shines; it is as bright and brilliant as before, only somehow it seems to be... cloaked?” and then, “I imagine that must be pleasant,” Cas stops, as though he’s actually surprised by this observation.

“What do you mean?”

“The same way a cloak is pleasant to a human? As a means of protecting oneself from external influences, a guard against cold and wear, and so forth?”

“Uh, wow?” Dean sort of agrees that that sounds pleasant. He also wonders where he can get his soul a bulletproof vest. Or bodysuit.

“And the surface, Dean, you are magnificent,” Dean shuffles uncomfortably, “Your soul is dancing between thorns and spikes, and perfect, beautifully deceptive smoothness.” Castiel exhales, “Your soul is so _alive_.”

“Technically, I believe I am dead, Cas.”

“Do not make fun of me, Dean.” Dean wasn’t really, he just needed to break the suddenly tense atmosphere, “I’m serious, surprised as I am. You are a demon. And your soul is brilliant. Elegant. _Beautiful_.”

Dean blinks, knowing he has lost the fight for getting rid of the charged atmosphere. For a long, long moment the restored angel and the brilliant demon stare at each other in silence.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be working six days a week for the next couple of months, which means this will only be updated once a week - alternatingly Saturday or Sunday, depending on which day I have off. Sorry 'bout that!


End file.
